


I was not free

by biblionerd07



Series: broad-shouldered beasts [9]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety Attacks, Brother-Sister Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Complicated Relationships, Father-Son Relationship, Healing, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slurs, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-23 09:50:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18150287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biblionerd07/pseuds/biblionerd07
Summary: When Terry dies, Mickey can't figure out all the different, complicated emotions he's feeling. He's afraid he's going to do something he can't take back, so he leaves. He doesn't regret running, but he sure regrets where he ends up. Luckily, though, he's got people on his side to make sure he always makes it back.





	I was not free

**Author's Note:**

> This one is LONG and it is a doozy. A lot of discussion of past abuse that Mickey and Mandy went through. (None terribly graphic, and all sexual abuse is only circuitously referenced since the people talking about it know what happened and have no desire to rehash it explicitly.) There is a scene with some homophobic violence and I've included a brief description in the end notes if you'd like to make sure it's not too triggering, though I can promise it's nothing worse than canon.

Mandy’s there when Mickey gets the call. They’re all sitting around, shooting the shit while the kid watches one of his annoying cartoons, and Mickey’s phone starts buzzing. He doesn’t know where the fuck it is; the kid was playing his worm game, and then he put it down to watch the cartoon, and Mickey was too distracted by the way Ian was running his fingers through Mickey’s hair to care where the phone went. Ian ate a whole dinner, Mickey’s got a new job he actually likes, Svetlana got her new job all set up, the kid’s doing better than ever at school, and Mandy’s here visiting and smiling all the way up to her eyes. Mickey doesn’t give a fuck about anyone calling him. Pretty much everyone who ever calls him is in this room anyway.

“Someone’s phone,” Svetlana says. She doesn’t make any move to grab it, though.

“Not mine,” Ian says.

“Not mine,” Mandy says.

“Must be mine,” Mickey says. He doesn’t move either. Ian snorts and pokes the back of Mickey’s neck.

“You’re not going to get it?”

“Who’d be calling me?” Mickey reasons.

“Fiona,” Ian guesses.

“Work,” Mandy says.

“Is Hawkins,” Svetlana tells them all. She’s looking down at the screen. Still not moving to hand it to Mickey, though. She’s got her feet up on the coffee table and a beer in her hand. She’s apparently not moving for a while.

“Hey, kid,” Mickey tries, making Ian and Mandy laugh at him. “Can you bring me my phone?”

The cartoon’s on commercial, and Yevgeny’s easily duped, so he picks it up off the ground and brings it right over. “Here you go, Dad,” he says.

“Thanks, bud.” Mickey ruffles his hair and Yevgeny runs back to plop down on the ground an inch from the TV. “Gonna go blind,” Mickey adds as he unlocks his phone.

“But I have glasses,” Yevgeny points out.

Mickey laughs. “Got me there,” he admits, finally answering the call. “Hawkins, what the fuck? I just saw you yesterday. You really get off on my piss, huh?”

“Hey, Mickey.” Hawkins has almost become someone Mickey would call a friend. But he’s not laughing. He sounds more serious than Mickey’s ever heard him.

“What?” Mickey asks, heart starting to pound. Ian must be able to feel it, since they’re all tangled up together, because he tightens his arms around Mickey right away.

“It’s about your dad,” Hawkins says apologetically. “He’s, uh.”

“He out again?” Mickey asks with numb lips. Ian sucks in a breath at the thought. He can’t hear what Hawkins is saying, but there’s only one person Mickey would be asking that about. Mickey wants to look over at Mandy, but he can’t bring himself to do it.

“No,” Hawkins says carefully. “He’s…Mickey, he’s dead.”

Mickey doesn’t say anything for probably a full minute. He doesn’t think anything, doesn’t even breathe. He just sits there like a fucking robot who got turned off.

“What?” He finally manages to find two brain cells to get the word out.

Hawkins hesitates. “How much detail do you want?”

“Uh.” Mickey can’t figure out what the fuck is happening. He can’t work out what Hawkins is asking him. His brain hasn’t come back yet. “What?”

Hawkins sighs. “Mickey, are you with me?”

“No,” Mickey says stupidly. “I’m at home.”

“Fuck,” Hawkins breathes. “Hey, Mickey, is Ian there?”

“Uh huh,” Mickey says. He can’t make his eyes focus.

“Can I talk to him for a second?”

Mickey hands off the phone wordlessly. Ian raises his eyebrows, all surprised. “Me?” He asks.

Mickey shrugs. “I guess he wants to talk to you.”

For some reason, handing over the phone is what sparks Mickey’s brain. Ian’s fingers brush against his and Mickey heaves in a huge breath and lets it out shakily. Before Ian can even talk to Hawkins, Mickey says, “Fuck. He’s dead. Terry’s fucking dead.”

“What?” Mandy asks, voice getting all high with shock. Mickey still hasn’t looked over at her. He’s pretty sure if he does he’s going to get hit with a lot of feelings and he’s not ready for that yet.

“What’s going on?” Ian asks into the phone. “Yeah, he just said that,” he goes on. Then he’s handing the phone back.

Death used to be nothing to Mickey. When he was thirteen, he watched Terry beat a man to death and then he went home and ate a Pizza Pocket. When he thought Sammi was dead, he was mostly just annoyed because of the extra cleanup. Of all the deaths Mickey’s experienced, this one should be no big deal. He should be _happy_ right now. Instead he feels like he can’t get a deep breath.

“How’d he die?” Mickey asks without preamble.

“Got stabbed,” Hawkins says. That’s not surprising. It’s kind of surprising this one actually killed him, though. Someone must’ve worked pretty hard on that. Mickey wonders who finally got that done. It’s going to be quite the bragging point in certain circles.

“Anyone coming for me?” Mickey asks. His brain is having no trouble going into overdrive now. Maybe it was someone they pulled a con on. For them to come after Mickey, it would’ve had to have been years ago, but still. No telling how long someone will wait to get revenge, especially if they left someone to get locked up for a while.

“The police need to come talk to you,” Hawkins says. Mickey swallows hard. He didn’t even think of that.

“It wasn’t me,” he says, voice getting breathy with fear. “Hawkins, I didn’t do it.”

“I know,” Hawkins soothes. “But they have to look into it as a potential hit. The other inmate who did it’s been involved in hits before.”

Mickey does his best to think that through. “He got stabbed inside? And the fucking cops are still coming for _me_?”

“Wait, what?” Ian demands.

“Why you?” Svetlana asks angrily.

“Mickey,” Mandy breathes.

“You’re not a suspect, not for real,” Hawkins assures him. Mickey’s breathing is ragged. “They just have to check.”

“They ever fucking talk to the guy?” Mickey asks, hating how he can hear the tears in his own voice. “Why would anyone drop money on cutting his ass when someone was bound to do it sooner or later?”

“I know,” Hawkins says. “Mickey, I told them all this. But they have to do their jobs.”

“Since when?” Mickey asks bitterly. “Why didn’t they do their jobs the billion times he was beating the shit out of me? Why didn’t they do their jobs when that crazy bitch shot at me and said I tried to kill her so _I_ got locked up? Huh? Chicago’s finest gives a shit about a fucking career criminal?”

“I know,” Hawkins repeats. His voice is quiet. “Mickey, I’m sorry. Just cooperate with the police when they show up. You didn’t do anything wrong. They’ll just ask a few questions and leave.”

Mickey can’t stop shaking his head. He bites his tongue so he doesn’t break down bawling his eyes out. The thought of cops here, in this house, is ripping away all the safety he’s felt here. They moved here after the whole thing with Terry happened, and Terry’s been locked up the whole time they’ve lived here. This house has never seen cops or Terry or violence. He’s been with Ian the whole time in this house. This has been a good house. Mickey doesn’t want to ruin it.

“Can I go to them instead?” He asks desperately. “I don’t want ‘em here, Hawkins.”

Hawkins blows out a breath. “I’ll talk to the guy who called me, okay? It shouldn’t be a problem. They’ll probably be happy they won’t have to make a trip.”

“Okay,” Mickey says shakily. “That’ll be better.”

“Will it?” Hawkins asks shrewdly. “Are you really going to feel better at the station?”

Mickey runs his hand down his face. “I can’t have them in my house. Not—I don’t want the kid to see.” The kid saw Terry outside their old place, or heard him trying to break down the door and yelling how he was going to kill Mickey for the whole street to hear, anyway, but he seems to be getting over that okay. Mickey knows everyone else knows it’s not the kid he’s really worried about with the cops.

“Okay,” Hawkins says. “Alright, I’ll talk to them. Ian’ll come with you, right?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says. He doesn’t even have to stop to think or ask. Ian would be coming with him even if Mickey didn’t want him to. He does want him to, though, so that’s good.

“Alright, that’s good,” Hawkins says. “Take care of yourself, okay? Let Ian take care of you.”

“Okay,” Mickey agrees robotically.

“Bye, Mickey.”

“Thanks,” Mickey remembers to say. Hawkins didn’t have to call and give him a head’s up. He knew Mickey would freak the fuck out if the cops just showed up without warning. He was looking out. Mickey got pretty lucky when it comes to his PO assignment. Hawkins actually seems like he gives a shit about him.

Mickey drops the phone and doesn’t know what to do. He swallows hard, finally forcing himself to look over at Mandy. She’s biting her lip the same way he does when he’s freaking out.

“They think you put a hit on him?” She asks.

“Hawkins says I’m not a real suspect. They’re just doing their jobs.”

“For once in their lives,” Ian mutters.

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees.

“Dad?” The kid’s standing up, looking at all the adults worriedly. “Did something bad happen?”

Mickey covers his face with his hands. Did something bad happen? No, not really. But how does he tell a little kid it’s a good thing someone’s dead? That seems like bad parenting, and it’s going to bring up a whole shitload of questions Mickey won’t know how to answer.

And there’s this little part of Mickey, this part he hates and wants to cut out of himself, that’s not happy. Even with everything Terry did to him, all the beatings and cruelty and everything with Svetlana and Ian and _Mandy_ , there’s this little kid hiding in Mickey’s chest cavity feeling sorry his dad’s dead.

“Uh,” Mickey says. “Come here, kid.” Yevgeny comes over and stands in front of Mickey. “My dad’s dead,” Mickey says. “That’s what Hawkins was telling me.”

Yevgeny tips his head to the side. “Dead?” He asks.

“Yeah. You know what that means?”

Yevgeny rolls his eyes. “Yeah, Dad.” He bites his lip, his eyes flitting around Mickey’s face. “Are you sad?”

“Not really,” Mickey says. It’s not a lie. Mickey’s got a lot of emotions swirling around inside him, but he isn’t sure _sad_ covers any of them. A tiny bit remorseful, at most.

Yevgeny looks a little concerned. “Aren’t you s’posed to be sad when someone’s dead?”

“Yev,” Ian cuts in gently. “Dad and Mandy’s dad was a really, really bad man, remember? He hurt them a lot. So we’re not sad that he can never hurt them again.”

The kid traces a finger over the scar on Mickey’s face. “Did your dad do that to you?” He whispers.

“No,” Mickey tells him. “That was a guy in prison.” He has plenty of other scars all over his body he could show the kid from shit his dad _did_ do to him, but he doesn’t think that’s a good idea for anyone right now.

“Oh.” Yevgeny looks over at Mandy. “Are _you_ sad?”

“Not at all,” Mandy says blithely. But Mickey can see little tremors going through her and he has to look away fast or he’s going to lose it.

“Okay,” Yevgeny says slowly.

“Got any questions?” Mickey asks. The chick at the parenting class always says he’s supposed to ask that whenever he explains shit to the kid, but fuck if he has any idea what he’ll do if the kid says yes. None of those lessons ever mentioned explaining your abusive piece of shit dad getting stabbed in prison. Maybe Mickey will have to ask her next month.

“I don’t know,” the kid says seriously. “Maybe I’ll think of some later.”

It almost makes Mickey laugh. He nods. “You can ask whenever you got questions.”

“I know,” Yevgeny assures him. He hesitates, still peering closely at Mickey’s face. “Do you need a hug, Dad?”

Oh, Jesus, Mickey’s going to cry. His eyes fill up and he blinks hard. “Sure, kid, that’d be good.”

Yevgeny’s hug is subdued. He usually bounces over and throws his arm around whoever he’s hugging. But he very gently puts his arms around Mickey’s neck. Mickey presses his cheek to the top of Yevgeny’s head and closes his eyes. He kisses the kid’s hair and lets him go.

“Thanks, little man,” he says quietly.

“You’re welcome, Dad,” Yevgeny says. He’s being very somber. “You can have a hug whenever you need one.”

Mickey laughs a little, but he’s getting all tearful again. “Okay. Thanks.”

Yevgeny goes over and gives Mandy a gentle hug, too. She doesn’t have tears in her eyes, but Mickey can see her still biting her lip.

“Okay, Zhenya,” Svetlana says. “Go brush teeth for bed.”

Yevgeny looks over at Mickey and then away. Mickey realizes they didn’t read their books, and Yevgeny’s weighing whether or not he should ask about it.

“You want to read?” Mickey asks him.

“Not tonight,” Svetlana cuts in.

“We can read,” Mickey says. “I’m fine.”

“Mickey,” Ian says quietly. He’s always reminding Mickey how important it is to take time to deal with shit and not just keep pushing on. Which is hypocritical as fuck, because Ian would probably just quietly bleed to death in a ditch somewhere rather than tell anyone he needed help.

“I need it,” Mickey tells him, avoiding everyone’s eyes. “It’s a good thing, okay? It’ll be good.”

“Okay,” Ian relents.

“One only,” Svetlana tells Yevgeny sternly. “No whining for more.”

“Yes, Mama.”

Mickey follows the kid down the hall into his bedroom. Yevgeny runs over to his bookshelf, the one Debbie found at Goodwill for four bucks and Mickey spent an afternoon sanding down and repainting and tightening screws while the kid “helped” but made more of a mess than anything else. He’s got all his books lined up neatly. He picks one that looks pretty short. Mickey doesn’t know if it’s normal for a seven-year-old (and a _half_ , Yevgeny would haughtily remind him) to be that perceptive, to know Mickey’s clinging to control over his emotions and it’s not going to last long. Maybe all kids are that smart. Mickey knew pretty early on how to judge Terry’s moods, how to know when to run and hide or if it was safe to come out.

He can’t think about that right now.

Mickey lies back on Yevgeny’s little twin bed and Yevgeny comes over to cuddle up to him. Mickey doesn’t have his reading glasses, so there are a few times when the kid gets stuck on a word and Mickey has to bring the book close to his face to help him out, which makes Yevgeny giggle. The sound usually helps settle Mickey’s pounding heart. It doesn’t do much today.

Yevgeny finishes the book and neither of them move for a minute. Yevgeny’s resting on Mickey’s chest, kicking one leg up in the air and letting it drop over and over again. “Dad?” He asks quietly. “Did your dad always hit you?”

Mickey’s first instinct is to shove the kid away and tell him to shut the fuck up. But Mickey’s been working really fucking hard to stop following his first instinct. Today, of all days, Mickey is not going to be like Terry. He takes a deep a breath and closes his eyes for a second. He opens them to see Yevgeny tipping his head back to look worriedly at him.

“Yeah,” Mickey tells him. “Long as I can remember.”

“He hit you because he was mad at you? When you did something bad he hit you?”

Mickey tries to figure out how to explain it to a little kid. “Yeah, that was how he saw it. He told me he was smacking me because I was in trouble. But he smacked me for a lot of things I shouldn’t have gotten in trouble for. He got mad over accidents, and he got mad when I cried, and he got mad when I ate something he wanted, and he got mad if I talked too much…” Mickey has to take a break to breathe out slowly. “He got really, really mad that I love Ian.”

“Why?” Yevgeny asks, confused. “He doesn’t like Ian?” He sounds absolutely incredulous at the thought of someone not liking Ian. It pulls a little smile out of Mickey.

“Because Ian’s a boy,” Mickey says. “My dad didn’t want me to be gay.” That’s putting it mildly, Mickey thinks darkly.

“That’s called homophobia,” Yevgeny informs him quietly. Mickey can’t believe the shit schools teach these days. Mickey had never heard that fucking word until he was well into high school. Ian’s probably the first one who ever said it to him. Or maybe Ian’s the one who taught the kid. That would be just like Ian. He probably bought him a fucking book about it and it’s going to make its way into Mickey and the kid’s rotation next week and Mickey’ll end up rolling his eyes so hard they fall out because it’ll be full of touchy-feely bullshit.

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees, because the kid _is_ right, and maybe it’s not horrible if the kid starts learning that shit now.

Yevgeny’s thinking hard about something. Mickey waits him out. He’s impatient, and he’s starting to get that itch under his skin that means he needs to get up and pace, but he’s ignoring it. Right now, he’s sitting here as long as the kid wants him here. He needs it. He thinks it might be less about comfort and more about proving something to himself.

“When I do something bad, you don’t hit me,” Yevgeny says slowly. Mickey flashes to the kid’s wide, terrified eyes when Mickey yanked on his arm and shook him. That memory’s already starting to fade for Yevgeny. Mickey’s glad, but it scares him a little. He almost wishes the kid would keep reminding him about it. Just in case he ever forgets and thinks he’s a good dad who can slack off.

“Hey,” Mickey says. “Look at me.” Yevgeny shifts around so he can. He can’t lie on his side very well because of the glasses, so he ends up with his head somewhere around Mickey’s belly button and his feet way too close to Mickey’s face. Kid’s got fucking lethal stinky feet. “Nothing you do would ever be bad enough that I should hit you. Okay? There’s no such thing. My dad was a shitty dad. He was a shitty person all around. He got mad about other shit, shit that happened with other people, shit that wasn’t my fault, and he hit me. Me and Aunt Mandy and my brothers you don’t know. And my mom, too. He hit anyone he could find because he was mad and because he was just a fucking bad guy. And I…” Mickey has to stop for a second. “I didn’t deserve it. He shouldn’t have hit me. And no one should ever hit you. You don’t deserve that. Got it?”

“Got it,” Yevgeny promises. He sounds like he’s not really sure why Mickey’s telling him all this. Mickey realizes, with a weird swoop in his stomach, that this is all a given to Yevgeny. He’s not surprised to hear that he shouldn’t get smacked. He already knew that.

“If I ever do hit you, I want you to go right to your mom or Ian, okay?” Mickey says. “I don’t care if I tell you I’m sorry and I won’t do it again. You tell them right away. And if they don’t listen, tell somebody at school. And if _they_ don’t listen, find a way to tell Aunt Mandy. You hear me?” Mandy sure as fuck won't let Mickey get away with that shit. Not anymore.

“You just said you _won’t_ hit me!” Yevgeny says. That’s not actually true. Mickey’s been very careful to never promise that, because he’s not making promises he doesn’t know for sure he can’t keep. He knows he’s a piece of shit for not knowing he can keep that promise, but he’s doing his best to work with what he’s got.

“I try really fucking hard every day,” Mickey tells him. “But I don’t—kid, I’m a pretty shitty guy, too. I used to do just what my dad does. When I got mad, I hit people. That was what I did my whole life. Now I’m working on it so I don’t do that anymore. I’m trying not to be a shitty dad but I don’t really know what I’m doing. So I’m saying if I ever mess up and I do hit you, it’s not your fault. No matter what, that shit isn’t your fault. Grown-ups don’t ever have an excuse to hit kids, you hear me? That’s my fault if I do that. And I gotta get in trouble for it, okay?”

Yevgeny has tears in his eyes now, his little lip trembling away. Maybe Mickey’s fucking him up for life, telling him all this. Maybe he’s too young. But Mickey sure as fuck never had anyone telling him this. It would’ve been a big fucking surprise to him to hear he didn’t deserve to get hit. He spent his entire life thinking if he could just be better, just do what Terry wanted, his dad would stop beating the shit out of him. Hell, he spent eighteen years of his life thinking if he just did better, his dad might _like_ him. It’s embarrassing it took him that long to realize it was never going to happen. It’s embarrassing there was _still_ a piece of him, up until an hour ago, that thought maybe it could still happen.

“Sorry if I scared you,” Mickey says. “See? I’m shitty. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”

“But I don’t think you’re shitty, Dad,” Yevgeny protests. “I love you.”

And that’s it. Mickey breaks. His whole body starts heaving with these painful, guttural sobs. He doesn’t have a fucking clue specifically _what_ he’s crying about, really. But he sure as fuck is crying.

Ian must’ve been waiting right outside the door or something, because Mickey barely gets one wail out before Ian’s in the room, squeezing onto that tiny twin bed. Svetlana’s right behind him and she pulls Yevgeny away.

“Dad?” Yevgeny asks, eyes wide behind his glasses. He’s terrified and Mickey fucking hates himself for it. But there’s fuck all he can do it about it right now. He literally cannot stop bawling. He can’t get control of himself. Ian presses Mickey’s face into his neck.

“He’s gonna be okay, Yev,” Ian assures him, even though Mickey sounds like he’s dying right there on the kid’s dinosaur sheets. Svetlana says something to him in Russian and hustles him out of the room. Ian presses his lips right up close to Mickey’s ear, one hand on the back of Mickey’s head and the other rubbing his back.

“I got you, Mick,” he murmurs. “I’m right here.”

The storm doesn’t last too long, thank fucking Christ. Mickey’s chest hurts from crying so hard. That’s never happened to him in his entire life, not even when Ian fucked off to die in the Army or when Mickey got dumped, shot at, and arrested all on the same day. Mickey wishes he could lie here and let Ian comfort him, but unfortunately, he’s too fucked in the head for that. He pushes away from Ian, swiping at his face and his nose, and gets up to pace. He’s embarrassed as fuck. It’s not just that he’s embarrassed about crying in front of anyone; he’s embarrassed to be crying at all. He shouldn’t be wasting any fucking tears on Terry.

Ian’s crying, too, which is fucking awful. No doubt the kid’s out there crying, too, and who knows what Mandy’s going through. She has a shit ton more to cry about than Mickey.

“I’m gonna have to go to the cops and talk to them,” Mickey says. His voice is all rough from the crying. “Don’t know when.”

“Okay,” Ian says. “I’m coming with you.”

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees. “Where’s Mandy?”

“She’s out there.” Ian cautiously walks closer to Mickey. Mickey doesn’t move away, so Ian wraps him up.

“Nope,” Mickey says, pulling back. He thought he could take it but it turns out he can’t. “No. Sorry, I just—”

“Okay,” Ian cuts him off. “Whatever you need right now, Mick.”

“I don’t know…” Mickey feels lost again. “I don’t know what I need. I don’t know why the fuck I just cried. I—why would I cry over him?”

“Because this shit is complicated,” Ian says softly. “I had a really hard time after Monica died.”

Mickey swallows hard. He forgot about that. How shitty can he be? He forgot about Ian’s dead mom. He loves Ian more than anything on the fucking Earth, and he didn’t remember that his mom’s dead. Monica’s always been a big fucking pit of conflicting feelings for Ian. Mickey wasn’t around when she died, so he didn’t see firsthand how Ian took it, but he knows it was bad for Ian.

He should let Ian talk to him about this. They’ve never talked about Monica’s death. They’ve never talked about Mickey’s mom dying, either. Mickey doesn’t have a lot of strong feelings about his mother, though. She was always just this shadow person who was around sometimes and always coming off a high so she just slept, or Terry would be annoyed that wasn’t around because she was off getting high again. Whether she was around or not, she had the same impact on Mickey’s day-to-day life. At most, Mickey was pissed she didn’t do anything to stop Terry from hitting him, but even that was something he didn’t realize she could do until a lot later. Kim says that all still impacted him, though, even if he doesn’t realize it, and she said seeing his dad beat the shit out his mom on the regular is definitely part of his trauma.

“Not really the same though,” Mickey hears himself snap at Ian. “Your fucking mommy issues got nothing on this.” It feels like someone else just said that. Why the fuck would he say that to Ian? Ian’s trying to help. And sure, Monica didn’t put out cigarettes on Ian’s bare skin and laugh about it or beat him with a bat or pistol-whip him or _hire a prostitute to rape him_ , but she sure as fuck wasn’t mother of the year and she gave Ian a shit load of issues to work through. Popping in and out the way she always did fucked those kids up good. She encouraged him to date the older guys and took him around to clubs to meet dudes who treated him like shit. She fucking pimped him out for drugs when they were off in their little la-la land the first time Ian ran off. She slit her own wrists at their big family Thanksgiving dinner, for fuck’s sake. The bipolar disorder they share compounds everything, too, because it freaks Ian out that he’s just like her. There’s no reason for Mickey to act like he’s the only one with a fucked up parent and complicated feelings.

Hurt flashes over Ian’s face and Mickey’s equal parts satisfied and disgusted. Mickey’s hands are shaking. He turns away from Ian, guilt rising in his throat. What the fuck is he doing? He has to leave. He has to get away from everyone before he says something horrible or does something worse. Mickey knows this burning feeling in his chest, and it usually releases itself in violence. He’s going to punch someone or something before this night ends, and he’s not letting it happen here. He balls up his hands tight to stop them from shaking, but then he’s making a fist, the kind that wants to land against someone’s face or their stomach. He’s going to lose it, and whoever’s closest to him is going to catch all the fall out, just like he always used to do. Just like Terry always did.

So Mickey runs.

“Mickey!” Ian yells.

“What are you doing?” Mandy asks as Mickey flies through the living room. He doesn’t say a word. He yanks open the door and sprints down the front steps. He didn’t even close the door, and some distant part of him that isn’t going crazy as all fuck feels bad about it. But he’s mainly focused on running. If he can get far enough away, he won’t hurt any of them. He won’t say anything else shitty and he won’t touch them.

“Mickey!” Ian yells again. Ian could catch him easily. The only way Mickey could outrun Ian is if he had a day’s head start or Ian had two broken legs. But Ian’s voice doesn’t get any closer. No footsteps follow Mickey. Ian knows Mickey well enough by now to know Mickey needs to be alone right now. So Ian lets him go.

 

By the time Mickey stops running, he could swear he tastes blood from his lungs. He hasn’t run like that in a long time. He has no coat, no shoes, and no phone. It’s pitch dark. This was not a good thing he just did.

The blood lust has died down. Maybe he really is growing or some shit like that. Or maybe Ian’s got an actual point when he says running helps. Every muscle in his body is trembling. There’s a neon sign lit up in front of him. He doesn’t have any money, though, and he doesn’t know if some random bar will let him start a tab if he can’t show a credit card. He should go to the Alibi. Kev will let him drink. Kev will also let Ian know where Mickey is and keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn’t hurt himself.

Mickey heads toward the neon lights.

The bouncer takes one look at him and shakes his head. “Man, you don’t have shoes on.”

“So?” Mickey demands.

The guy gives him an incredulous look. “So you ain’t coming in.”

“My dad just fucking died,” Mickey says, though he doesn’t get into the details of why that makes him need to drink. That gives the guy pause. He looks sympathetic, but he presses his lips together.

“Sorry to hear that. My pops passed last year. Still can’t let you in, though,” he says apologetically. “Hang on, okay? Stay there.”

Mickey just stands there staring at nothing until the guy comes back. He’s got a double shot of vodka in each hand and he gives both glasses to Mickey. Mickey knocks them back and hands the glasses back. Then he just wanders off.

His alcohol tolerance is far from what it used to be. Vodka shots used to be barely more than water; it would’ve taken a hell of a lot more than two doubles for him to feel anything. But he didn’t drink much while he was locked up because no one would share their toilet brew with him, and he’s spent the last year and a half trying not to be piece of shit, so he hasn’t had more than three beers in a night for over a year. He also doesn’t drink those three beers in a span of thirty seconds. He has to stop and hang onto a lamppost for a second when the vodka hits him. Once he starts walking again, he’s stumbling. He’s not black-out drunk or anything, but he’s feeling it enough that the ground is tilting away from him.

He doesn’t really know where he’s going until he looks up and recognizes the neighborhood around the Alibi. He stares at the sign for a minute, unsure if he wants to go in. It rained earlier, so his socks are soaked through. Kev will take him in and get him fixed up. Ian will show up within half an hour. Ian’s going to take him home and take care of him. Mickey can’t decide if that’s what he wants.

“Mickey?”

Mickey turns around. His head spins a bit with the movement. Standing across the street are Iggy and Colin, both holding a twelve-pack in each hand.

“Huh,” he says. He didn’t even think of his brothers when he got the news from Hawkins.

“You hear ‘bout Dad?” Colin asks.

“Yeah,” Mickey says.

“We’re giving him a wake,” Iggy says, holding up one of the twelve-packs. “You want to come?”

It’s a terrible idea. His brothers are a parole violation waiting to happen. Technically, the drinking’s already a parole violation, but Hawkins has never been too strict on that one and Mickey can’t see him choosing tonight, of all nights, to start caring about it. There’s no doubt going to be other stuff at whatever flop house they’re staying in, though. They always have drugs. If Mickey goes with them, he’s going to end up doing something stupid. Going with them at all is already doing something stupid.

“Alright,” he says, because he’s a stupid piece of shit person. He’s not supposed to think shit like that anymore, but he’s obviously not paying much attention to _supposed to_ right now. He crosses the street and walks with them.

“Why don’t you have shoes on?” Colin asks.

“Forgot ‘em,” Mickey says. Both his brothers accept this like it’s a real answer.

“Joey and Jamie are coming, too,” Iggy says. “Joey’s gonna bring some of the good stuff he’s selling now.”

That makes Mickey uneasy. The two oldest Milkovich boys are the most like Terry. Mickey hadn’t even seen either of them in at least a year before he went inside, and it had never once felt like a loss.

“Wonder where Mandy is,” Colin says conversationally. Mickey knows where Mandy is. She’s at his house a mile away. But Mickey has some part of his brain still working, and he keeps his trap shut. Mandy’s got enough shit on her plate tonight without adding their brothers to it. Mickey’s lucky she still comes around to see him, and he knows that’s mostly just because she wants to see Ian and he happens to live there too.

They go up some sagging front porch stairs into a house that looks a lot like the house they grew up in. Beer cans on every surface, guns and knives everywhere, a half-smoked joint on the coffee table. Mickey rubs his eyes. This was a really bad idea.

“Here,” Colin says, breaking open the first twelve-pack. He tosses Mickey a beer that he fumbles. “Let’s toast.”

Mickey obligingly cracks his beer and holds it up. “To Dad,” Iggy says.

“Sure,” Mickey says. He doesn’t quite feel like calling Terry _Dad_. Or toasting him, for that matter.

Mickey loses track of how much he drinks. People keep coming in with more beer, and he drinks every beer that ends up in his hands. He finds half a bottle of whiskey under the couch and helps himself. He doesn’t know who the fuck all these people are. People his brothers are friends with, he guesses. He doesn’t even see any of his uncles or cousins here, but then again, he has no idea who’s locked up right now. It’s not so much a wake for Terry as it is a house party. But Terry did this kind of shit all the time, so maybe it’s honoring his memory or something. Mickey watches his brother snort coke off a girl’s tits and wonders how long he’s been here. The whiskey bottle’s gone. Mickey doesn’t know if he finished it off and dropped it or if someone took it from him.

He doesn’t want to be here anymore. He had to get out earlier, had to run so he didn’t do anything he couldn’t take back, but he doesn’t want to be gone anymore. He wants Ian and Svetlana and Mandy and the kid. He wants to be lying in his bed with Ian wrapped all around him. He wants to go home.

The door bangs open and Mickey’s two oldest brothers walk in. The hair on the back of his neck stands up when he sees them. Joey looks more like Terry every day. It makes Mickey want to puke.

“Alright, you whores,” Joey bellows. “My dad’s dead. Who’s giving me a cheer-up blow-job?”

A few girls giggle. Mickey wants to frown at them. They probably deserve better than this shit. He doesn’t know them, but he can’t imagine who _wouldn’t_ deserve better than this.

“Shit, look who it is,” Jamie says, coming closer and giving Mickey a noogie he’s too drunk to dodge. The room’s whirling around him. He swears he can feel the rotation of the earth. He and the kid read a book about the earth’s rotation a few nights ago. He can’t remember anything it said, except for the rotation being how they get seasons and years and shit.

“Heard you’re a fag now. Is it true?” Jamie asks curiously.

Mickey nods complacently. “Yep.” He’s been one all along and even knew it, but he’s not going to get into a conversation with Jamie about suppressed sexuality. He barely gets into conversations about suppressed sexuality with his therapist.

“Fucking ass-digger,” Joey says scornfully.

“Nah, actually, my ass is the one that gets digged,” Mickey informs him. “Wait. Dug?” He’s pondering this grammatical question hard enough that he doesn’t notice Joey winding up his fist until said fist connects with his jaw. Mickey goes straight back into the couch, vision exploding with white. “Fuck.”

“You take it in the ass and you think you can come to Dad’s wake?” Joey spits, coming in close and punching Mickey again. Mickey can’t seem to get his hands up to protect his face.

“Hey, what would Dad’s wake be without a fag bash?” Jamie laughs, getting in a punch himself.

Mickey should be making an exit right about now, but his legs are so heavy he’s falling into the ground. He’s just sinking right through the couch. He can only open one eye. He can taste blood, so maybe he’s got a split lip. Jamie’s standing up, and the couch is low enough that he’s having an easy time raising his leg and stomping down on Mickey.

“Alright, it’s been fun,” Mickey manages to lie. “But I’m gonna go now.”

Jamie sits down on his legs, though, so Mickey can’t get up. Joey’s doing a few lines on the table. This does not bode well for Mickey. Joey’s a fucked up freak even before he’s on coke, but the coke is not going to help.

“Get off,” Mickey says, feeling like he’s about ten years old. Jamie always used to hold him down for Joey to hit him. They once took turns spitting in his face for a while and Mickey would almost rather get punched than go through that again.

“You showed your face, now we’re gonna teach you a lesson,” Joey says. “It’s what Dad would’ve wanted.”

“Well, fuck,” Mickey says, unsure what to do now. “Ian’s gonna be pissed.”

“The Gallagher one?” Jamie asks. “He your fucking butt buddy? Guess we’re going to get him next.”

Now that pisses Mickey off. He doesn’t love getting his ass kicked, but he can deal with it. He has a lot of practice in it. Going after Ian, though? No way in hell he’s taking that sitting down. “The fuck you are,” he says. He manages to shove Jamie off him. He’s lucky Jamie’s been drinking, too, or he’d be in trouble. “Don’t you fucking go near him.” His drunk brain makes a connection. If they go find Ian, who else are they going to find? “And leave my kid alone, too.”

“How the fuck you have a kid if you’re a fag?” Jamie asks. He’s closer to Colin and Iggy when it comes to smarts. Joey’s scary because he’s got some brains to go with all that homicidal rage.

“Your kid know you’re a fag?” Joey asks. He’s right up in Mickey’s face now. When did Mickey stand up? He doesn’t remember. But it’s good that he did. It’ll be easier to get to the door, assuming his legs start cooperating sometime soon.

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “Loves Ian. He’s a nice kid. Good kid. Little nerd with glasses. Smartest kid in the first grade. Fucking loves dinosaurs.” Mickey doesn’t know why he can’t stop talking about the kid. He shouldn’t give them any information they can use to hurt him.

“Real sweet,” Joey sneers. “Sad he’ll be an orphan.”

“He has a mom, dumbass,” Mickey says scornfully, drunk and running his mouth. “And Ian, too. Doesn’t even need me.”

“Well, good,” Jamie says. “’Cause you’re gonna die tonight.” That changes things. If it was just a beating, fine, Mickey could take that. Joey and Jamie actually seem pretty serious, though, and Joey on coke is beyond capable of murder. Mickey’s got to go.

“No, thanks,” Mickey says. “Got a fucking lot to live for now.” He headbutts Joey and makes a break for the door. He can’t really run, though. Jamie grabs him before he can get the door open and headbutts him right back while Joey gets his bearings back. Mickey pukes on the floor. Being the one to do the headbutting was bad enough, drunk as he is, but _receiving_ a headbutt is way worse.

“Now we’re really gonna kill you,” Joey snarls, and he pulls his brass knuckles out of his pocket. That’s really shitty. It would be one thing if he was planning to stab or shoot Mickey, but getting beat to death is a slow, painful way to die. Mickey’s actually starting to get scared, through the drunken haze. They really might do it. Family loyalty doesn’t mean much when Mickey’s gay. And he’s all alone, no one watching his back, just like he always was in the joint. His breath starts picking up.

“Ah, come on,” Colin whines. “I got all this beer. I don’t want to do anything else. Just wanna sit here and drink it.”

“I don’t even have my body burying shovel,” Iggy agrees. “Killing him tonight’s gonna suck. We’d have to drag him all the way outside because Krista’ll be pissed if we get blood on her floor. Just rough him up and let him go. Tracking him down’d be more fun, right?” Some distant part of Mickey is actually kind of touched. Colin and Iggy are usually pretty quick to jump on the murder train. This is their way of helping him out. It’s not _great_ , obviously, but at least it’s something.

Mickey takes their collective confusion as an opening. He finally gets the door open and slams it against Jamie’s bad shoulder, the one Terry busted when Jamie was fourteen and getting mouthy, and he dashes out as fast as he can. But he trips over his own feet and falls down the stairs. Of course he does. Running away from a beating and smashing his face against the stairs is how Mickey lost his first tooth. Maybe Terry’s fucking ghost really is hanging around.

His brothers must’ve gotten bored with the idea of hurting him, or they just decided he’s not worth the trouble, because they don’t come after him. He’s bleeding a lot. He hit his head on the stairs after Joey had already pounded his face in. He has to stop and puke twice. He’s definitely got a concussion. But he knows exactly where he’s going right now.

He stands in the street in front of the house he grew up in and just stares. Those hipster people must’ve given up on it a while back, because it still looks like shit. There’s a broken window that’s not even boarded up. That doesn’t necessarily mean it’s abandoned, though; they once had a broken window for an entire summer and fall before Terry did anything about it.

Mickey swallows hard, looking at that house. So much fucking horror went on inside those walls. So much pain and terror and hatred and revulsion and just outright fucking grief. There’s still a lot of shit he’s never told anyone, not even Ian. There’s stuff even his own siblings don’t know, and stuff his brothers know but Mandy doesn’t, and stuff Mandy knows that no one else does. Probably all of the kids have some secrets about what he did to them, things they lock away because dragging them into the daylight is too fucking painful.

Mickey can’t see inside from here, but he knows through that broken window lies the living room, the one he and Ian were in when Terry came home and caught them. The kitchen, where Terry once held Mickey’s hand down on the burner when he was twelve because he was talking too much. The bathroom, where he slammed Mickey’s head into the wall of the shower when he was nine because he knocked too loudly when Terry was hungover. The bedroom, where Mickey’s uncle sat on his chest and pinned down his arms when he was seven so Terry could put out cigarettes on his skin because all the adults were high and thought his screaming was funny.

“I didn’t deserve that,” Mickey mutters. He’s crying, bitter, angry tears, and his chest is heaving. He picks up a rock and hurls it at the house. “I didn’t fucking deserve that!”

A dog barks and the curtains over someone’s window next door moves. Mickey doesn’t know what time it is, but he realizes it’s too late to be standing in the street chucking rocks and yelling, even in this neighborhood. “Sorry,” he says, quieter now. He shakes his head at that house and he turns and leaves. He’s stumbling and shaking, both from the cold and from emotion.

He thinks he could walk this path blindfolded. He kind of basically is right now, with all the blood dripping down his face and how his eyes won’t fully open. The cut on his forehead probably isn’t even that bad, but headwounds bleed like a motherfucker. Mickey gets to the Gallagher house and fumbles with the gate. It actually works now, because Mickey fixed it three weeks ago. Joke’s on him, though. Now he can’t get it open. It probably doesn’t help that he has to lean all his weight on it to stay upright.

The second he stopped moving, all the alcohol and the beating really slammed into him, and he’s about two seconds from just lying down on the cold sidewalk. He can’t, though. Something might happen to him if he does, and that wouldn’t be good. Ian wouldn’t like it if something happened to him, and Mandy can’t deal with any more shit tonight. Besides, the kid just joined a swim team and he’ll be pissed if Mickey misses his first swimming game or whatever the fuck it is. Mickey tries three times to get the gate open before the back porch light flips on and Fiona comes out with the bat.

“Oh,” she says when she sees Mickey. She lowers the bat. “What are you doing?”

“I’m drunk,” he informs her, letting his body sag. Fiona’s going to take care of him. That’s good.

“Are you bleeding?” She asks. She runs down the stairs then and gasps when she gets close enough to actually see him. “What the fuck happened to you?”

“My brothers.”

“Oh, shit,” she breathes. She opens the gate. There’s a handle he had to hold down. He remembers choosing that now. She gets an arm around his waist and heaves him across the yard. “How’d you even get here by yourself? And where the fuck are your shoes?”

“My dad’s dead,” he tells her.

She doesn’t even miss a beat. “Good,” she says savagely.

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees. “So why’m I all fucked up over it?”

Her arm tightens around him for a second and she sighs. “Oh, Mickey,” she says sadly. “Come on. Into the house.”

“I wake up everybody up?” He asks, feeling like shit. He basically crawls up the stairs. Fiona does her best to help him, but he’s mostly dead weight and she weighs less than he does.

“Just me and Debs tonight,” Fiona tells him. “Carl stayed out with that new girlfriend of his and Liam and Lip are doing that science club sleepover thing with Lip’s department.”

“Oh, yeah.” Lip got some middle school program started with his campus to get kids to give a shit about science. Yevgeny was pretty sad he wasn’t old enough for it. Mickey sure wasn’t. Spending a weekend with a bunch of pencil-necked know-it-alls like Lip is not his idea of a good time.

“Gonna puke,” Mickey warns Fiona when they get inside.

“Shit, hang on.” She helps him get to the bathroom and lowers him to the floor beside the toilet.

“Fiona?” Debbie calls from the stairs.

“It’s okay, Debs,” Fiona reassures her as Mickey starts hurling. “It’s Mickey.”

When Mickey pulls his head out of the toilet, Debbie’s come down to stand beside Fiona. “Are you drunk?” She asks. It’s not like it’s the first time she’s seen him drunk. She yelled at him that one time, when Ian was out of the hospital. That was pretty ballsy of her. He forgot about that. It’s the first time they’ve seen him drunk since he got out of the joint, though, so maybe they’ve all forgotten that drunk Mickey is kind of dangerous. Once he stops puking.

“Real fucking drunk,” Mickey admits. “Think I got a concussion, too, though. Can you call Ian? Left my phone.”

“And his shoes,” Fiona tells Debbie with raised eyebrows. Debbie raises hers to match and Mickey wonders if they practice that. Debbie leaves to get her phone and Fiona slides down the wall to sit by Mickey.

“Shitty parents dying is hard,” she says. “You’re glad, mostly. But then...” She shrugs. “Part of you’s not.”

Mickey swipes his hand under his nose. “I shouldn’t feel sad for that fucking evil dick.”

“You shouldn’t,” Fiona agrees. Then she shrugs again. “But you probably do. And even if you don’t, him dying’s gonna bring up a bunch of other feelings that’ll sure fuck you up.”

Mickey curls his knees into his chest and rests his head on them. Fiona sits down next to him. It’s fine, not terrible, but he wants Ian. Maybe running off like that wasn’t the good, mature way to handle the situation, but Mickey had that boiling under his skin that meant violence was impending. It’s better that he ran out and got drunk and his ass beat than staying and doing something horrible at home. He doesn’t regret running, but he sure as fuck regrets where he ended up. It’s okay now, though. Fiona and Debbie have him, and Ian’ll no doubt be here soon.

“I’m gonna clean you up,” Fiona says, standing up.

“Don’t touch me.” Mickey jerks back. It makes his head throb and his stomach roll warningly, so he has to lean back against the wall and hang on for a second before the whole fucking Earth throws him off, but he can’t take her touching him right now.

Fiona puts her hands on her hips. “You’re covered in blood,” she points out. “Some puke, too.”

Mickey presses his face back into his knees, harder this time. It hurts. He keeps it there, keeps pressing his split lip so it keeps hurting. “I can’t,” he tries. He’s trembling. “You can’t touch me. I—I’ll lose it.” Why doesn’t anyone understand this is him doing his best not to be the piece of shit he is? Don’t they get that there’s only so much he can take? He used to fucking beat people at the drop of a hat, and they’re all acting like poking a sleeping bear’s not a bad idea.

Fiona doesn’t say anything for a minute. “So I just gotta leave you like this?” Her voice is shaking.

Mickey’s crying again. What else is fucking new. The salt stings the open wounds on his face and he’s glad. He feels like shit and it’s impossible to understand his feelings, but the pain of getting his ass kicked is familiar and uncomplicated.

“Well, you don’t gotta leave,” he decides.

Fiona makes a little noise in the back of her throat. “Alright,” she says, and he can hear tears in her voice now too, though he can’t look at her. “I won’t leave.”

Debbie comes back. She has her phone to her ear and distress all over her face. “Ian wants to talk to you.” She puts the phone up to him and he jerks away from her hand coming at his face. She murmurs an apology he ignores.

“I’m okay,” he mumbles into the phone. He’s so fucking tired.

“You want to stay there for now?” Ian asks cautiously. He’s probably kind of afraid of how Mickey’s going to react right now. Usually, Mickey running out isn’t coupled with Mickey being any kind of pleasant the same night. The sound of Ian’s voice makes the tears come faster and harder. Mickey doesn’t know what the fuck he’s feeling or what’s going on but there’s one thing he’s dead sure of.

“I want you,” Mickey chokes out. “Please. I need you.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” Ian says instantly. “Mick, I’m coming. Okay? Stay right there, baby.”

“Nope,” Mickey says. “Not doing baby.”

Ian laughs a little, but it sounds strangled. “Jesus, even in the midst of a breakdown you’re gonna crack the whip on that.”

“Gotta nip that shit in the bud,” Mickey manages to say. He doesn’t even know if he said anything intelligible right now. He’s so fucking drunk. He can’t believe he used to just exist like this all the time. He feels like shit that got run over and then shit out again.

“Okay. Stay there with Fiona and Debbie, okay? I’m on my way right now.”

“Okay,” Mickey says. “Love you.” He hands Debbie back her phone. She and Fiona both get down on the floor to sit next to him.

“Hey, Mickey?” Debbie asks in a small voice. “Do you want me to call your therapist or someone?”

Mickey shakes his head. “Just go to the free clinic. I can’t call them when they’re not doing that.” Kim probably wouldn’t just leave him hanging if he called her right now, but it’s not like he has her number, and it’s definitely the middle of the night.

“A sponsor or someone?” Debbie presses.

“Ian’s coming,” Mickey says. “That’s what I need.”

Debbie tentatively wriggles a little closer, so she’s just a breath away. He doesn’t flinch away or snap at her. Fiona scoots closer, too. That’s how Ian finds them: sitting on the bathroom floor, Mickey with his face pressed against his knees, a Gallagher girl on either side of him keeping watch.

“Oh, Mick,” Ian breathes. He sounds wounded. He drops to his knees in front of Mickey and gently tips Mickey’s head up so he can assess the damage. “You need stitches.”

“I can’t take anyone touching me right now,” Mickey says shakily. Ian starts to pull his hands away and Mickey’s shoot out to grab him. “No, anyone _else_. You—please, Ian.”

“Okay.” Ian leans in close for the gentlest kiss Mickey’s ever felt. It doesn’t hurt his split lip and Ian lightly stroking his cheek doesn’t hurt the bruise there. Mickey sighs, eyes slipping shut. “I’m gonna clean you up,” Ian whispers.

Mickey opens his eyes and glances at Fiona and then Debbie from the corners of his eyes.

“We’re gonna go find something for you to eat,” Fiona announces. She takes Debbie by the hand and leads her out. Debbie closes the door softly behind them, her big, sad eyes the last thing Mickey sees of her. He feels bad for freaking them out. Ian’s used to Mickey being a total wreck, but not everyone else is.

Mickey gets a hand in the collar of Ian’s shirt and clutches on. “Ran into my brothers.”

The muscle in Ian’s jaw works. “Guess they felt like keeping up Terry’s legacy, huh?”

“Couldn’t be a wake for Terry without a fag bash, could it?” His brother said that and it makes Mickey’s stomach churn a little to repeat it. It’s true, though.

Ian shakes his head. “Mandy’s the only one in your family worth keeping alive.”

Mickey shrugs. He doesn’t have any space in his chest to be angry at his brothers right now. He’s too confused and torn up and tired. “Colin and Iggy talked Joey and Jamie down from killing me,” he tells Ian.

Ian’s hands still for a second. “Killing you,” he echoes under his breath.

“Think they might’ve been serious this time,” Mickey says. He probably shouldn’t be telling Ian this. It’ll only stress him out, and Mickey got away. He’s just used to telling Ian everything these days, and he’s drunk and can’t seem to stop himself. It’s kind of funny; he used to not be able to make himself tell Ian stuff even when he wanted to. Now he should be shutting his mouth and he can’t. He doesn’t want Ian thinking about this shit. It would freak Mickey out to think of someone seriously trying to kill Ian.

“Hey,” Ian says. He puts a gentle hand on an unbruised spot on Mickey’s chin and tips Mickey’s head up to look at him. “That’s why you don’t take off without me. I’m your backup.”

Mickey doesn’t know why the fuck that makes him start crying again, but it does. Everything’s going to make him cry today, he guesses, and the thought of someone always having his back is still kind of novel, even after more than a year. “You remember that story the kid has about the werewolf dude?” He asks.

Ian looks completely baffled. He probably can’t tell if this is just drunken rambling. But he apparently decides to humor Mickey, because he goes back to wiping blood off Mickey’s face and says, “Yeah.”

“And he knows he has to get away from everyone when the moon comes out or he’ll hurt somebody.”

Mickey sees the moment in clicks in Ian’s brain. Ian’s shoulders sag. “You’re not a werewolf, Mickey,” he says softly.

“I was gonna do something,” Mickey says. “I could feel it. Had to get away so I didn’t hurt any of you. Better I get my own ass kicked than do it to any of you.”

Ian closes his eyes like he’s in pain. “Okay,” he says. “That’s good, then.”

“And I’m sorry I was a dick about your mom,” Mickey forces out. “I shouldn’t have said it.”

“Yeah,” Ian agrees. “But it’s not like you meant it.”

“I didn’t,” Mickey promises. “That was piece of shit Old Mickey talking.”

Ian huffs. “Hey, don’t talk shit about the first love of my life.”

Mickey laughs a little, but his chest hurts. “You really loved that guy?” He sure as hell would’ve been the only one.

“Oh, I loved him more than I could even stand,” Ian tells him. “He had such a shitty life, and underneath it all, he was hiding this caring, smart, funny guy.” He leans in and kisses Mickey. “I love New Mickey, don’t get me wrong. I just think you shouldn’t forget that you’re building off good stuff Old Mickey had inside all along. You’re not some whole new guy, Mick. This is who you always were. You just _get_ to be better now.”

Mickey wipes his nose against Ian’s shirt and Ian doesn’t even make a face. That’s how much Ian loves him. Mickey can’t process all that other stuff right now. It’s too much. “Still shouldn’t have said it.”

“Well, I mean, I guess you weren’t wrong. It’s not totally the same.”

“Doesn’t mean I get to be a fuck to you.”

Ian gives him this gentle smile that’s sort of sad. “Yeah,” he says softly. “But it’s okay. I understand.”

Mickey sighs and drops his head to rest against Ian’s collarbone. “I don’t know why I feel like this. I shouldn’t be fucked up for him dying. We should be throwing a fucking party.”

Ian brushes his fingers through the hair on the back of Mickey’s neck and doesn’t say anything for a minute. “I think,” he finally says. “It’s like...you wanted him around to see what you become. To see how great you are. He never believed you could be anything, and you’re pissed he’s dead because he’s not going to see you prove him wrong.”

Mickey’s vision is blurry with tears. “He was never gonna give a shit either way.”

“Probably not,” Ian admits. His shrug takes Mickey’s head with it. “Doesn’t mean you don’t feel it.”

“I...” Mickey swallows hard. “Part of me...” He shouldn’t even say it out loud. But it’s Ian. He can say this to Ian. “Part of me wishes he didn’t die because—I know it’s fucked up. And it never would’ve happened.”

“But someday he could’ve changed,” Ian supplies quietly. His hand in Mickey’s hair tightens. “Maybe he would’ve shown up one day and loved you enough to not hurt you.”

They’re both crying now. It’s exactly what Mickey feels. And it’s stupid that he feels it after all the horrifying shit Terry did to him. He doesn’t want that feeling. He hates that it’s inside him.

“I’m mad,” he tells Ian. He laughs a little. “What else is fucking new?”

“I’m mad, too,” Ian says. “I wanted to be the one to kill him.”

Maybe it’s a sign of how fucked up Mickey is as a person, but that cracks him up. Laughing reminds him that he hit the stairs with his body, not just his face, and Jamie was stomping on him, because his ribs ache. He groans and Ian purses his lips. He looks in Mickey’s eyes in an efficient way now, not a romantic or comforting one.

“Concussion?” Ian asks.

“Yeah,” Mickey says tiredly. “Jamie fucking headbutted me. And then I tripped over my own fucking feet and bashed my face on the front steps.”

“You and front steps, huh?” Ian jokes gently. It makes Mickey laugh again. Maybe he should be mad the love of his fucking life is making a joke about his dad beating the shit out of him when he was just a tiny kid, but he’s not. He just thinks it’s funny. He sighs and wipes his nose again. He’s got blood smeared all over his hand with the snot. Nothing he isn’t used to.

“I gotta talk to Mandy.”

“Not right now,” Ian says firmly.

“I’m fine,” Mickey protests.

“She’s not.” Ian meets his gaze levelly. “She doesn’t need to see you like this right now.”

Maybe a normal reaction would be to get mad at Ian thinking he has to protect Mandy from Mickey, but all Mickey feels is a washed-out kind of relief. Of course Ian’s looking out for Mandy. He always has. And Mickey’s glad. Mandy hasn’t had many people looking out for her in her life. Besides, Mickey knows better than to think she doesn’t need protection from him, too. She does.

“Okay,” he acquiesces. “Guess I’m sleeping here?”

“We,” Ian corrects. “Not leaving you.”

Mickey’s tears have apparently finally dried up, thank God, so he doesn’t start crying again. He ignores the pain and rests his head against Ian’s.

“God, what would I do without you?”

“Not something you need to worry about,” Ian says. “We’re never finding that out.”

Mickey sniffs. “Can you do stitches?”

“Course I fucking can,” Ian scoffs. “Been doing stitches since I was thirteen.”

“Can you do _good_ stitches, though?” Mickey asks skeptically. “I mean, what, V taught you once on Carl or something? He probably _wanted_ you to do a shitty job. But I can’t be fucking up my pretty face with a scar.”

Ian smiles at him, one of those smiles with everything he’s feeling written right across his face so Mickey feels like he needs to look away and give Ian some privacy. Ian gives him a kiss that doesn’t quite hurt and says, “Chicks dig scars, you know.”

Mickey snorts, then winces. His nose is definitely broken. He already snores like a fucking bear from all the other times it’s been broken and all the years of chain-smoking, and this is not going to help. “Well, I do make decisions based on what chicks like.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“What about you, though?” Mickey asks. He figures he’s allowed to be sappy today. “You like scars?”

Ian smirks at him. “Fishing for compliments?”

Mickey shrugs. Ian’s playing around, but Mickey isn’t, not really. He knows he’s not very good at taking Ian’s compliments, because he never got any before Ian came along. It’s still nice to hear them, though. Sometimes. And he’s feeling needy right now. “Maybe.”

Ian leans in and gives him another kiss. “I love everything about your face,” he whispers. “I hate that you were hurt and got a scar, but I love that you’re alive. And all those scars on your body say you made it through all that hell he put you through. You’re here with me now. You survived, Mickey. So yeah. I dig your scars.”

Mickey’s too exhausted to be overwhelmed by all that. He kisses Ian a little too hard and tastes blood. That’s not unfamiliar. Even with all the communication and work and love they’ve got going on now, sometimes they just need rough sex. But Ian shakes his head.

“Not like that,” he says softly. “Not tonight.” That’s probably something Mickey would get mad about, years ago. He doesn’t like being told what to do and he used to hate Ian implying Mickey used sex for anything other than getting off. He would have never wanted to feel like Ian was looking out for his well-being. He never wanted anyone acknowledging him being vulnerable or needing anything. Not anymore, though. This is a good thing.

Mickey drops his head to rest on Ian’s shoulder. “I love you.” He feels a little choked up even though his eyes are dry. “You take care of me.”

“I love you, too,” Ian says. “And you take care of me, too.”

Mickey doesn’t know how Ian knew, but it was exactly what Mickey needed to hear. Mickey didn’t even know he needed to hear that. But it settles something in his chest. Ian’s good at that.

Mickey lets Ian gently clean up the blood all over his face and bandage him up. They don’t have anything to numb Mickey’s skin with, but Mickey’s so drunk he can hardly feel anything anyway. Ian’s stitches are small and neat, of course. They’re careful and planned and thought-out, just like everything else he does. Then Ian leads him to the kitchen to eat eggs and toast. Mickey can’t even pay attention to whether or not Ian’s eating. He’s going to have to trust Ian on that tonight. And there’s always Fiona and Debbie to pick up his slack. Finally, Ian helps Mickey up the stairs to go to bed. They go into that bedroom Ian used to share with Lip and Liam and Carl and all those fucking beds are still there. Mickey remembers sleeping here, years and years ago, and if he weren’t drunk and emotionally tapped out he might have some feelings about sleeping here now.

He has to get up in the middle of the night to piss. Untangling himself from Ian is a bit of a feat, considering how reluctant Ian seems to be to let go of him, even in sleep. It’s not a bad feeling. Mickey just doesn’t want to wake Ian up. He already dragged him out in the middle of the night to come deal with Mickey’s drunk, bloody ass. But he cuts himself a little slack on that front. Ian wouldn’t have been sleeping anyway, not with the way Mickey took off, and Ian’s not going to be mad that Mickey sought him out for help and comfort afterward.

Mickey finishes pissing and just stares at himself in the mirror for a minute. He looks fucking awful. The skin around the stitches on his head is all swollen and bruised. He can’t see out of his left eye because it’s all swollen and already turning that puke-yellow and purple color. He has marks on his neck like someone choked him, which is news to him because he sure as hell doesn’t remember that. It’s not real surprising, though; strangulation is a Milkovich specialty. His lip is split open and so are his knuckles. Did he land some punches of his own? He doesn’t remember that either. His chin is one giant purple bruise. His nose is scraped up from falling down the stairs. The worst part is this isn’t the worst he’s gotten. This is almost mild for the Milkovich family, especially for a fag bash.

Mickey brushes a hand through his blood-crusted hair and opens the door. Debbie’s standing outside, leaning against the wall. “Sorry,” Mickey grunts. His voice is all raspy and he doesn’t know if it’s all the crying he’s done today or if he’s getting sick on top of it all. Just his fucking luck.

“You should drink some more water,” Debbie says, holding out a glass to him. How’d she already have that waiting? It would be really fucking weird if she’s just been waiting for him all night. Maybe he was just loud stumbling down the hall and woke her up, and she got him a glass of water while he spent twenty minutes in the bathroom. “You’re still drunk now but you’re going to feel awful in the morning.”

“I’m gonna feel fucking awful either way,” Mickey points out. But he takes it and drinks obediently. For one thing, she’s right, and for another, she’s probably not going to leave him alone until he does it. He just holds onto the glass when he’s done. He’s definitely not navigating those death-stairs to put it back in the kitchen, but it’s probably rude to make her do it. He’ll just drop it on the floor when she goes in the bathroom.

“You know, it gets better,” she tells him. She’s got this hopeful look on her face and Mickey wants to tell her what a stupid fucking thing that is to say. What gets better? He stops feeling confused? He stops swinging from happy to mad to crying at the drop of a hat? He was already doing that shit before Terry died, so why’s this make a difference? He wants to tell her that shit belongs on a motivational poster he can use for target practice.

He stops himself, though. Debbie’s like twenty years old, which didn’t used to seem young to him but does now. Besides her being young, she’s been through a lot of shit. And she’s just trying to help. Mickey’s had enough shitty people in his life to know he should appreciate that when he gets it.

“Yeah, okay,” he says, because he might be appreciating it but he’s still learning _how_ to do that. “Thanks,” he adds, because that usually helps.

She smiles at him and he’s suddenly hit by a visceral wave of pain as he contemplates how different Mandy’s life could’ve been if she’d had someone looking out for her. Looking out for her _right_ , the way all the Gallagher kids did for each other. Someone protecting her from their own asshole parents, not just beating whoever she said needed beating. Mickey’s chest is getting tight. Maybe Mandy could’ve been smiling hopefully and spouting useless platitudes at someone if she’d ever had anyone tell her anything she did helped.

“Night,” Debbie says, stepping into the bathroom. She has no idea Mickey’s heart is caving in right now.

“Night,” he echoes, keeping his voice controlled. He leaves the glass in the hallway, and he makes his way back to bed.

 

Mickey stares at his front door. Ian’s waiting patiently for Mickey to be ready to go in. Mickey just feels like shit for how he freaked out last night. Mandy has way more shit from Terry than he does, and if anyone was going to fall apart, it should’ve been her. He did it first and she probably felt like she couldn’t after he did. It makes him feel like a dick. Plus, he scared the hell out of the kid, and Svetlana’s probably wondering if he’s ever coming back. On top of all that, he looks like someone shoved him through a fucking meat grinder, and he’s going to have to explain himself about that, too. He feels even worse than he looks. His body hurts, his stomach won’t settle, and his head is so heavy it’s lolling on his neck.

“Come on, Mickey,” Ian says, apparently giving up on the waiting patiently thing and making the executive decision that it’s time to go inside. “They all just want to know you’re okay.”

“How the fuck should I know if I am?” Mickey mutters. But he follows Ian up the steps. Before opening the door, Ian pulls Mickey in close and just holds onto him. Mickey closes his eyes, breathing Ian in. He needed that. Emotionally, sure, but also physically, because going up the stairs really took it out of him.

“Okay?” Ian asks.

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “Guess so.”

He takes a deep breath and goes inside. Despite everything that happened, a little of the tension goes out of his shoulders when he gets inside. This is home. This is safe. He almost fucked that up last night, but he didn’t.

“Dad!” Yevgeny comes running out and Mickey hates himself for how he tenses up. It’s just that he’s coming at Mickey fast, and Mickey’s in defensive mode right now, and his head’s throbbing and his mouth feels like it’s full of cotton because of the hangover and also the concussion, and he’s worried about losing control and hurting someone or losing control and puking on someone. Ian steps forward and catches the kid before he can launch himself at Mickey.

“Yev,” Ian says patiently. “Remember what we talked about last night?”

Mickey feels like such a fucking asshole. Ian had to sit the kid down and tell him not to love Mickey too much. That’s how fucked up Mickey is. _How fucked up his life has been_ , Mickey corrects himself half-heartedly. It’s really goddamn hard to do the positive self-talk shit when his head feels like someone’s trying to chisel through it.

“What happened?” Yevgeny asks, all distressed. Mickey’s stomach is clenching and he can’t tell if it’s all the bad feelings swirling around or the hangover.

“Fuck, Mickey,” Mandy says, coming out of the bathroom. “What the fuck did you do?”

“Shit,” Svetlana breathes, catching sight of Mickey’s face from the kitchen.

Mickey’s breathing hard. They’re all just coming at him at once. And they’re his fucking family, and he loves them, and they make him feel safe, but right now everything’s too much. Ian holds up a hand to ward everyone off. “Hey,” he says, firm and authoritative. “Mickey ran into his brothers last night. That obviously wasn’t a good thing. But he’s going to be okay. I’m going to take care of him. And we need to give him some space. Got it?”

Yevgeny’s crying a little and Mickey hates himself an awful lot. “Come here, kid,” Mickey says. He steels himself and gets ready. Yevgeny comes over and leans against Mickey’s legs like he used to do before Mickey would let the kid touch him for real. Mickey can’t pick him up, not with his ribs all messed up and not when he’s feeling so off-balance, but he crouches down as best he can and pulls the kid in.

“I’m okay,” Mickey promises him. “I’m sorry I scared you last night. I, uh…” Mickey clears his throat. “You know sometimes I feel real bad and I get freaked out. I was afraid I was going to hurt you or your mom or Aunt Mandy or Ian.”

“You wouldn’t,” Yevgeny says, loyal to a fault.

“I don’t know that,” Mickey says honestly. “But I know I didn’t want to, so I made sure I couldn’t. I don’t know if that makes sense to you, but I did what I had to do.”

“You did good, Mickey,” Ian cuts in softly. “Next time you’re just gonna make sure you take me with you. Or at least your fucking phone.”

Mickey huffs. “Yeah. Sorry.”

Yevgeny pushes back and examines Mickey’s face. “You got beat up, Dad.”

“Yeah, I did,” Mickey agrees. “And then I fell down some stairs and bashed my head open.”

“Fell?” Mandy checks darkly.

“Fell,” he assures her. He tips his head. “I mean, I was being chased.”

“Yeah,” she says. “That sounds right.” She keeps looking at the fingerprint bruises on his neck. She’s had her own way too often.

“Hey, kid,” Mickey says, standing up slowly. Ian has to grab his elbow and help him get there. “I gotta go talk to Mandy, okay? Just me and her for a little bit.”

“Are you gonna leave again?” Yevgeny asks, eyes big and worried.

“No,” Mickey tells him. “Not right now. Can’t make any promises that I won’t freak out and take off again sometime, but I promise I’ll always come back, alright?”

Yevgeny considers this. “Okay,” he finally says.

Mickey carefully tips his head toward the bedrooms and Mandy follows him down the hall. He leads her into his and Ian’s room and closes the door. They both just stand there for a second, not saying anything.

“Remember when we used to hide under the bed?” Mandy finally asks. Her voice is small and quiet and it stabs Mickey in the heart.

He huffs. “Yeah,” he says. He looks at the bed. “Don’t think I’d fit now.”

“I bet you would,” Mandy says, almost teasing. “You’re small.”

Mickey just looks at her for a second. She looks alright. Tired, though. He wonders if she slept at all. “Sorry,” he says. “Shouldn’t have left you like that.”

Mandy sits down on the bed. It’s still made, so Ian must not have even tried to sleep before Debbie called him last night. Mandy pulls her knees up and wraps her arms around herself.

“Better you left than punched and broke shit,” she says.

“That’s what I figured,” he tells her. He sits down beside her, groaning a little. He’s not used to getting beat up anymore. He forgot how fucking sore he’d be. Crazy that he could forget in barely more than a year.

“I’m really glad he’s dead,” Mandy says, staring straight ahead.

“I am, too,” Mickey says, because even with all the other shit going on in his nightmare of a brain, that’s still true. It’s especially true for Mandy’s sake. He can’t imagine the kind of weight that must be off her shoulders.

Neither of them say anything for a minute. Mandy rests her head on his shoulder. He twitches a little, but nothing could make him push her off right now. Mandy letting anyone comfort her is rare, and he knows she’s enough like he is that it’s hard to touch people when she’s feeling shitty.

“I never got to yell at him or fight back,” she whispers. “You know? You told him you’re gay and fought him.” She shrugs. “I always just kept my fucking mouth shut and pretended nothing happened. I should’ve done more to fight back.”

Mickey’s throat is so tight he almost can’t speak. “Don’t you fucking dare feel guilty for getting through that shit,” he chokes out. “You know he would’ve fucking killed you.”

“Used to think it’d be better if he did,” she confesses. Mickey shakes his head, crying hard now. Two of the people he loves most in the world have both thought they’d be better off dead, and it was for stuff they couldn’t control every time. It makes him want to scream, punch his fists bloody, shoot something.

That’s what he would’ve done before. But all that violence never did shit for him. Never made him feel better, no matter what he told himself and everyone else. It won’t change what happened. It won’t make Mandy feel better. Getting violent right now would only make everything worse for her, a reminder of the DNA they’ve both got and the potential to turn into the monster they’re both still afraid of. So for once in his miserable fucking life, Mickey just stops. He takes a long, deep breath. He uses his hands for comfort right now, not hurt. He wraps his arm around his little sister and he rests his head against hers.

“Hope you don’t think that anymore,” he says softly. “Because I really don’t know what the fuck I’d do if you weren’t around.”

“I’m not around,” she points out. Her voice is so small, so lost, and Mickey can’t stop crying.

“You are, though,” he counters. “I know where you are. I know you’re _alive_. I know you’re safer than you’ve ever been here. You talk to Ian and the kid, you come visit. And you know where _I_ am if you need help.” He shrugs. “I know I’m—I wasn’t good. When we were younger. I wasn’t good to you. I should’ve helped you more. I should’ve fucking shot him. Tried to stop him. Something. I’m sorry I didn’t do anything.” They’re both bawling now. Mickey’s probably getting snot in Mandy’s hair, and later she might screech at him for it if they make it out of this room without dissolving into a puddle of tears. “But I’m trying to be better now, okay? I’m trying to be better to you.”

“You are,” she tells him. “And you couldn’t have done much before. He only did it when you weren’t around. Think he knew you wouldn’t let that shit go.”

“I did, though,” Mickey says. This might be the thing he hates himself most for, out of everything he’s done in his life. At the very bottom of his seemingly endless well of shame, there’s Mandy, a fucking bite mark on her neck and her eyes empty and glassy. “I knew he did it and I didn’t do a fucking thing to stop it. Fuck, how many dudes’ asses did I kick because they pulled half the shit he did? Anyone else and I would’ve killed them. But I just pretended I didn’t know he was doing it.”

“What could you do?” She asks tonelessly. She’s digging her nails into the palm of her hand and Mickey wants to stop her. He wants to make sure she doesn’t hurt over anything ever again, but he knows about clinging to control and finding ways to hang on. “Mickey, I go to therapy, too, you know. My shrink straight-up told me Terry was one of the worst cases she’s ever heard of. He fucking _terrorized_ us from the minute we were born. You stayed alive. I stayed alive. We did what we had to do. And if you tried to go after him for it, he would’ve killed you. You said I don’t get to feel guilty for surviving. Well, I’m fucking telling you not to, either.”

Mickey drags his sleeve across his nose. “I’m never gonna stop feeling guilty about what he did to you.”

Mandy sighs. “Yeah,” she says. “Well, me, too. I feel guilty that I let him do it to me. And I feel guilty that I didn’t stop him when he did shit to you, too, you know? But it’s not our fault. It’s his.” She shrugs, swiping at the tears on her face. “We just gotta figure out how to actually feel that.”

He doesn’t have a response for that. He sniffles up the snot from his running nose. “I don’t get why I’m so fucked up over him dying,” he admits. “I’m fucking glad he’s gone. But I wanted to have a really fucking good life and I wanted him to know I was happy.”

“Yeah,” Mandy says. She clenches her fingers around his arm. It fucking hurts, but he doesn’t move or cry out. “I know what you mean. I always thought I’d see him again someday and I’d…I don’t know. I’d be rich and he’d be some bum on the street and I’d get to laugh at him and he’d have to fucking know it was his fault I didn’t help him.” She snorts. “Fucking stupid.”

“You didn’t fucking run away,” Mickey says bitterly.

Mandy lets out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, you haven’t seen your kitchen yet. Guess I should’ve followed you.”

Mickey turns his head to look at her. “What’s that mean?”

“I broke like…all your fucking dishes,” she confesses. “Just took them out of the cupboard and smashed them, one by one, and I was screaming and crying and punching shit.” She holds up a bandaged hand. “Cut myself. Ian was doing double duty last night.”

Mickey presses his hands into his eyes and hisses at the flare of pain from his swollen left eye. “He’s still fucking with us,” he says angrily. “He’s dead and we’re still fucked.”

“I know.” Mandy shifts away a little. Mickey’s not offended or anything. He knows how it is—sometimes you just can’t handle someone touching you, or sometimes you just need a break from people touching you for a little while. He was getting so good at letting people touch him. But last night he was all freaked about it again, so maybe that’s all shot to hell again. “I think we both really fucked up your kid last night,” Mandy says, tears in her voice.

“God,” Mickey moans. “I’ve been trying so fucking hard, and then…” He blows out a breath. “Fucking Terry.”

“Fucking Terry,” Mandy agrees softly.

They don’t talk after that. They just sit there, Mickey doesn’t know for how long. Mandy eventually puts her head back on his shoulder, and he puts his arm back around her, and they just sit there and breathe.

“What happened with all the other boys?” Mandy asks. It’s been so long since either of them said anything Mickey jumps.

“Colin and Iggy said they were having a wake, so I went with them.” Mickey rolls his eyes. “Real fucking stupid idea. Joey and Jamie showed up. Joey thought I shouldn’t have showed up since I’m a fag. Said they were gonna kill me.” He laughs a little. “Colin and Iggy didn’t want him to.”

“No shit?” Mandy asks. She shakes her head a little. “I think we all get better when we’re not around him for a while.”

“Not Joey,” Mickey says darkly. “He looks so much like him. Made me fucking sick. And then he just…kept pounding on me. Jamie held me down for a while. But I got away. Tripped down the stairs, but I got away.” He shrugs. “Went to Fiona’s house. Woke up half the fucking neighborhood trying to open that fucking gate.”

“Thought you fixed it,” Mandy cuts in.

“Yeah, I fixed it too fucking good and I couldn’t open it.”

She cracks up laughing at him. “You were drunk by then, huh?”

“I don’t even know how drunk I was,” he tells her. “My head feels like someone’s trying to fucking get out. Anyway, Debbie called Ian.” They quiet down. “You get any sleep last night?”

Mandy snorts. “No.”

“Yeah.” Mickey huffs. “Well, I mean, I fucking passed out. But then Ian kept waking me up ‘cause he was afraid I’d die in my sleep from the concussion. And my insurance hasn’t fucking kicked in yet, so he was going nuts.”

Mandy smiles at that. “Did you know he sent me a fucking blood pressure machine and asked me to check it every month?”

Mickey bursts out laughing. “He’s a fucking freak. Checks mine every month, too.”

“It’s nice,” Mandy says softly. “Having someone give a shit.”

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees. “Most of the time.”

She nudges him gently. “Don’t be a dick to him about it.”

“Hey, he’s a dick to me when I give a shit about him,” Mickey says defensively. He shrugs. “We’re working on it.”

“Good.” Mandy sighs. “Not everyone gets someone loving them like that, you know.”

It makes his chest hurt. He’s not under any illusions that his sister’s a fucking saint or anything like that, but she deserves a hell of a lot more than what this life’s given her. All she’s ever wanted was for someone to love her, take care of her, treat like she’s worth something, and all these fuckwads she dates can’t even do that.

“Well, I’m always gonna give a shit about you,” Mickey tells her. He can’t look at her when he says it, but he says it. “Not the same or anything, but it’s better than nothing, right?”

Mandy laughs a little. “Yeah,” she says, staring straight ahead and not looking at him, either. “Better than nothing.” It’s probably stupid how proud it makes him feel to hear her say that.

“And Ian’s always loved you,” Mickey says. He bumps his shoulder into hers and adds smugly, “Not the way you want, though. That’s just for me.”

“If only I could get that gay guy to love me,” Mandy deadpans. Mickey laughs.

“You got the kid, too, you know,” he tells her. “Thinks you’re the fucking best.”

“Yeah, well, he thinks _you’re_ the fucking best, too, so he’s obviously got bad taste.”

“Fuck you,” Mickey says. He thinks that sometimes, like what the fuck does that kid now about good people, but she’s joking, just teasing, and he can stifle his own insecurities for the laughter on her face. “If my ribs weren’t fucked up I’d give you a noogie.”

She rolls her eyes. “More like if you didn’t know I could kick your ass.”

Mickey rolls his right back. “Whatever.”

“Let’s be happy anyway,” Mandy says out of nowhere, suddenly urgent.

“Huh?”

“We can’t do it to prove him wrong anymore. But let’s be happy anyway. He fucked me up forever, but I want to be happy, Mickey. I’m _gonna_ be happy. He doesn’t get to keep fucking me up. Not anymore. There’s some stuff I’ll never get over, but I can fix other stuff and I can work on it. I can be happy all on my own, no matter what he did or what he wanted.” She turns to look at him, chin held high even though her bottom lip is quivering a little. “You with me?”

Mickey can feel his own bottom lip trembling, and the lump is back in his throat. “Okay,” he manages to say. “I’m with you.” He sticks out his hand, all dorky and stupid. “Let’s be happy.”

Mandy laughs and shakes his hand. They’re both smiling, but they’re both teary-eyed, too. He once told Ian you couldn’t know Mandy until you fought Mandy. It’s still true, but this is a different kind of fighting. This is Mandy fighting for herself, her life, her right to be happy. Mickey knows Mandy better than most people, maybe better than anyone except Ian. He thinks she might be the strongest person he’s ever met. And if Mandy can give Terry that kind of _fuck you_ , can pick herself up and fix her life and fight for her own happiness, Mickey sure as fuck can join her.

 

Ian lets go of Mickey’s hand when they get to the police station. That’s always been what Mickey’s needed. He needs all his focus to keep from absolutely losing his shit with all those cops around. He can’t worry about people noticing him and Ian when he’s so worried about seeing someone he knows and maybe getting his ass tossed back in a cell.

But that isn’t what Mickey needs anymore. Mickey doesn’t give a fuck if anyone notices him and Ian. They’re going to get fucking married someday. People can notice. Mickey needs to feel Ian touching him right now. He grabs Ian’s hand back. Ian raises his eyebrows, surprised and questioning, and Mickey nods.

“I need you touching me,” he says. “I don’t need you staying away anymore.”

Hawkins comes in the door behind them. “Hey,” he says, nodding at them and doing a double-take when he sees Mickey’s face. A cop in uniform comes up to them, and Mickey can feel his shoulders hunching against his will. He’s safe, he reminds himself. There’s no way in hell Ian’s letting anything happen to him. Hawkins too, probably. Mickey’s not as secure in that thought, but Hawkins showed up here because he knew Mickey would need backup. That’s a good thing.

“Milkovich,” the cop says. “I’m Sergeant Williams. Come on back.” He stops Ian and Hawkins. “You can both wait here.”

“No,” Mickey says, terror seizing up his heart. He’s clutching Ian’s hand like the dude’s going to try to drag Ian away from him. “I need him. He’s my—fiancé.”

Ian’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but he stays right at Mickey’s side. The cop just shrugs. “What about you?” He asks Hawkins.

“I’m his PO,” Hawkins says. “If he’s being implicated in a crime, I need to stay in the loop.”

The cop shrugs again. “Whatever.” He leads them through a bunch of desks full of cops. Mickey’s throat is starting to close up and it feels like the air is going out of the room. Ian squeezes his hand comfortingly and Mickey focuses on that. He didn’t do anything wrong. They can’t just throw his ass in jail for the fun of it, even if he knows they would if they could.

Mickey’s leg starts bouncing the second they sit down. The cop digs through a stack of folders on his desk and then glances over the one he pulls out. His eyebrows go up a little. “Alright,” he says. “So the guy who stabbed your father has taken hits in the past. I understand you didn’t have a good relationship with your father?”

Mickey can’t hold back a laugh, despite the cold sweat running down his back. “No,” he says. “I did not have a good relationship with my father.” Understatement of the fucking century.

The cop leans back in his chair a bit and looks at Mickey. “You have some kind of run in with someone?” He asks casually, gesturing at Mickey’s face.

“My brothers, actually,” Mickey says, trying to keep some semblance of calm. “Not exactly a happy fucking family.” Maybe he’s supposed to be respectful right now, but he can’t focus on watching his mouth while he’s staving off a freak out with every bit of strength he has.

“I got a note here about an altercation with your father outside your apartment last year, and another one at a bar from years ago,” the cop says. “But there’s no motive written down in either one.”

Mickey swallows hard. “Well, I don’t know if you knew him, but my dad never needed a reason to beat the shit out of me. Or anyone else. But, uh, I’m fucking gay,” he says, unable to keep his gaze in one place right now. “And I bet you probably have a note about how Terry felt about that.”

“You got an actual question here?” Hawkins steps in. “To my understanding, you don’t have any evidence tying Mickey to this. You don’t even know for sure it was a hit, right? So how about we move this along and let these boys go home.”

“Pretty involved PO,” the cop says interestedly.

“Yeah, I get like that when someone’s fishing for a reason to charge my guy with something,” Hawkins snaps. “Get to it and ask him the goddamn questions.”

Mickey’s shaking. He can feel sweat on his face and the back of his neck. He hates that he reacts like this. It’s not even just the cop right now; it’s talking about Terry, sitting in a station full of cops, and this one who already made up his mind that Mickey’s a total piece of shit.

“You’re a violent felon, Mickey,” the cop says, eyebrows raised. “Attempted murder is what I see here. And you had a bad history with your father. So you can see why we need to ask you some questions.”

“Not really, though,” Mickey says. “I don’t got any fucking money, man. And I got a kid. You think I’m wasting whatever I get on that piece of shit?”

The cop nods. “We couldn’t find a record of a bank account for you.”

Mickey shrugs. “Don’t got one.” He’s pretty sure no bank wants him on record with them.

“Where do you deposit your paychecks? I know you don’t get paid in cash.”

Mickey shrugs again and nods at Ian. “Put it in his.”

“I see.” The cop makes a note and looks at Ian. “I’m gonna have to subpoena your bank records. Unless you want to give me your statements yourself.”

“Fine,” Ian says hostilely. “We don’t got anything to hide.”

“Glad to hear it,” the cop says. “We’ll check out those bank statements and I’ll give you a call if I have any follow-up questions.”

Mickey huffs. “That’s it?”

The cop raises his eyebrows again. “Do you want me to ask you more questions?”

“I’m just saying, you bust into my life thinking I put a fucking hit on someone, you treat me like I’m a piece of shit, and then all you care about are bank records? Why the fuck did I have to come down here if all you care about is shit you can get on the computer?”

“We didn’t know all we needed were bank records when I asked you to come in,” the cop points out. “Because we couldn’t find your financial information.”

“Fucking hell,” Mickey says, breath coming ragged. “You got any goddamn idea what this does to me? A fucking guard beat the shit out of me all the time when I was inside, and you want me to come in here with all you fucking cops like it’s nothing?”

The cop narrows his eyes. “Are you saying a prison guard assaulted you?”

“Oh, you’re not gonna find any fucking _evidence_ ,” Mickey says disgustedly. “Don’t act like you’re even gonna look. I’m just saying, maybe next time you ask someone to come in for questioning because their evil fucking piece of shit dad died, don’t come at ‘em like they’re dog shit on your shoe.”

Mickey’s chair scrapes against the ground when he stands up, and it makes him flinch. He’s sweating and he can’t get a full breath. Ian gets his arm around Mickey and shoots daggers at the cop with his eyes.

“Come on, Mick,” Ian says. “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

Mickey follows Ian out of the station. He can finally gulp in a whole breath when they’re outside, blinking in the sunshine, though he’s still looking all around in case any cops are coming at him. He leans his head against the back of Ian’s shoulder. He feels like someone cut into him and sapped all his energy. He wants to go home with Ian and go to bed.

“Mickey,” Hawkins says behind him. “If they have more questions, they’re gonna go through me first.”

“Okay,” Mickey says. He can’t say anything else. He’s too tired.

“Thanks, Hawkins,” Ian says for him.

Hawkins nods. “I’m proud of you,” he tells Mickey. It makes Mickey twitch. What the fuck does anyone have to be proud of him for? All he’s done the past few days is cry and bleed. “You stood up for yourself in there, Mickey.” He frowns. “But I do want the name of that guard.”

“No point,” Mickey points out. “My word against his ain’t gonna do shit.”

Hawkins doesn’t look happy. “We’ll talk about it later,” he decides. “I don’t want him getting away with doing that to you.”

“Yeah, well, maybe he won’t, without any cops,” Ian says angrily. “Give him some fucking South Side justice.”

“I want to go home,” Mickey breaks in dully. Later, he’ll be kind of turned on by Ian threatening to take that fucker out. He’s not going to let Ian actually follow through on the threat, obviously, because there’s way too much at stake if he gets caught, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t nice to think about. But right now, he’s exhausted. He just wants Ian to hold him and kiss his hair and keep him safe.

“Go on home,” Hawkins says. He gives Mickey a sad kind of smile. “I’ll see you next week, Mickey.”

“Bye, Hawkins,” Mickey says. Ian puts his arm around Mickey’s waist and they walk to the car. Mickey leans back in the seat and closes his eyes. “You know what I keep thinking about?” He asks in the stillness of the car.

“What?” Ian asks. Mickey still has his eyes closed, but he can hear Ian set aside the keys. He’s just focusing on Mickey right now. It’s kind of overwhelming. But it’s not bad.

“Not everything he did was bad,” Mickey admits softly.

Ian makes a little noise in the back of his throat. Mickey opens his eyes to see Ian picking at the skin around his fingernails, lips pursed. “Yeah,” Ian says. “I get that.”

“When I was like eight, he took me on this job with him,” Mickey says. “He went in this house, I guess dropping some drugs or something, and he pointed out this car I was supposed to get into and start.”

“He made you steal a fucking car when you were eight?” Ian asks.

“Yeah. I didn’t know that’s what was going down, though,” Mickey tells him. “He just told me that was my job. And I did it. I popped the lock and got inside and started the car. I had to wait for him to come out and drive off, though, because I was way too fucking small to drive.” He laughs a little. “He came out and we left. And he, uh.” Mickey huffs. “He told me I did a good job. And he took me to McDonald’s and bought me a fucking Happy Meal. Even let me keep the toy.”

“What was the toy?” Ian asks quietly, because he knows there’s no way Mickey’s forgotten.

“It was like this robot dog thing,” Mickey says. “Kept it for a long time.”

“What happened to it?”

Mickey shrugs. “Who the fuck knows what happened to anything in that house?”

Ian doesn’t say anything for a second. He turns to look at Mickey. “Just because not everything he did was bad doesn’t mean he was good.”

“I know that,” Mickey snaps. “I’m not a fucking idiot. I know that buying me a fucking Happy Meal doesn’t make up for beating the shit out of me every fucking day.”

“Okay,” Ian says, kind of annoyed but not rising to the bait. “So?”

Mickey takes a deep breath. He’s working on not taking his shit out on Ian. That’s a Terry move. And it really isn’t fair to keep expecting Ian to just take it because Mickey’s fucked in the head. “So I used to think when he got pissed at me it really was my fault. He bought me that Happy Meal one time, and sometimes he’d let us watch something we wanted on TV, and he just…he wasn’t always scary and mean. Especially when I was little. So I thought really he must’ve been a good guy, and I was the one who was being shitty.”

“You thought you deserved it,” Ian says tightly.

Mickey shrugs. “Sometimes.”

Ian sighs. “I used to get excited when Monica was manic,” he admits quietly. “Long as she wasn’t on drugs. The first few days when she was manic, she was fun. She’d buy us shit, take us fun places. And then when she was on drugs or low or _too_ manic and being scary, I thought it was something we did. When she’d run off, I figured it was our fault.”

“Some people have good parents,” Mickey says. He snorts. “Can’t even imagine that.”

Ian laughs a little. “Wouldn’t know what to do if I had them.”

They’re both crying a little bit. They can joke about it, but Mickey doesn’t know if that angry, hot feeling in his chest will ever go away, that feeling that life isn’t fucking fair and it sucks that he got stuck with the family he did, for whatever reason. He knows Ian feels it, too. At least Ian’s siblings aren’t total shitheads. To him, anyway. It reminds him of something else he hasn’t told Ian about Terry.

“Remember those summer boxing matches people did?”

“Yeah,” Ian says with a snort. “Lip made pretty good money doing that one summer.”

Mickey scoffs. “Must’ve been the summer I was in juvie.” Mickey didn’t even join those fights once they started getting big, but if he’d known Lip was winning, he would’ve entered just to kick his ass and knock him down a few pegs.

“It was,” Ian laughs.

“Anyway, we started that. Me and my brothers. Well, Terry started it. There was this summer when I was…I don’t know, like eleven, I guess. And Terry decided we needed to fight more. For practice or what the fuck ever. So he’d pick two of us to go out in the backyard and brawl. Every fucking day. He’d get my uncles to come over and they’d bet on us, and then more people from the neighborhood started showing up to watch and it got bigger and bigger. Even made Mandy fight a few times.”

“What’d he do if you didn’t want to fight?” Ian asks warily.

Mickey shrugs. “The fuck you think? He’d change the fight from me and Joey to me and him.”

“Fuck,” Ian spits. His hands are clenched around the steering wheel. “Mick, I know I’ve said it before, but I fucking _hate_ him. I cannot believe the shit he put you through.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says quietly. “I haven’t told anyone this part.”

Ian stills. “Okay,” he says gently. “Go ahead.”

Mickey just sits there for a second, gathering his thoughts. Why did he even start telling Ian this story? Now he has to finish it. Ian’s not going to let him get away without telling him. But it’s not like this is a happy story, and it doesn’t even have anything to do with anything they’ve talked about today. Mickey bites his lip.

“So, uh, I was a fucking shrimp, you know. Like always. So I always got my ass handed to me by all my brothers. And if he thought we were going easy on each other, he’d jump in and whale on us both. I don’t think any of my brothers ever went easy, but sometimes he’d decide they did. I thought maybe if I won some of the fights, he’d, you know. Respect me or something.” Mickey laughs bitterly. “I guess I still fucking believed in fairy tales or something. Anyway, this one day I got matched up with Joey, and Joey never held back. So he got me on the ground and he was kicking the shit out of me, and I was bleeding and I remember thinking, what the fuck, you know? Like…I didn’t know a lot, but I knew it wasn’t what families were supposed to do. And I was so fucking mad. I kicked Joey’s knee out and knocked him down. I mean, he still fucking crushed me and I lost the fight, but it was the first time I ever knocked him down. So here I am thinking Terry would be fucking _proud_.”

“He wasn’t,” Ian guesses quietly.

“Nah, he beat on me after Joey was done since I was the loser. So then that night, everyone was asleep, and I couldn’t sleep ‘cause everything fucking hurt. I went to the kitchen to see if there was any food, and Terry was passed out on the couch. He had his fucking Bowie knife on the table by him. And I picked it up, and I thought…what if I stabbed him? I’d seen him do it to people. I thought I could do it.” Mickey’s crying now, remembering it. He’d been so full of rage and hate and fucking _sadness_. He was eleven goddamn years old and thinking about murder because he was just so tired of it all.

“What happened?” Ian asks.

Mickey covers his face with his hands. “He woke up.”

Ian sucks in a breath. “Shit.”

“I thought he was gonna kill me. And there was this part of me that just wished he would. Because then it’d be over. But he just stared at me. And he said…he said, _if you think you got the balls to do it, go ahead_.” Mickey swipes at his nose.

“What’d you do?” Ian’s eyes are all big. Obviously he knows Mickey didn’t kill Terry, and Terry didn’t kill him.

Mickey swallows hard. “I handed him the knife. I just fucking gave it back to him. And he put it back on the table, and he said _good choice_. And then he pushed me and he said _go the fuck to sleep_.”

Ian waits for a second. “Wait, really?”

Mickey takes a shaky breath. “Ian, I was so fucking happy. I thought it meant he loved me. I thought _not fucking stabbing me_ meant my dad gave a shit. ‘Cause he used to be kind of nice sometimes, and he didn’t kill me when I thought he was going to.”

“Mickey,” Ian breathes. He leans over, closer to Mickey, and Mickey meets him halfway. He needs Ian touching him right now. He needs to remind himself what love actually is. It wasn’t anything he ever got from Terry, that’s for damn sure.

“For my whole life, I thought I had to stick with him because he loved me. Because that one time, he didn’t hurt me. That was the best I could fucking hope for. And I spent the next, what, seven years trying to get that feeling back. Making him not hurt me again.”

Ian’s quiet for a second, just breathing against Mickey’s face. Then he strokes a gentle hand through Mickey’s hair. “I hate that,” he murmurs. “I hate that you didn’t have _anyone_ to love you or take care of you. I always had Fiona looking out for me. My parents were shitty, but I had my brothers and sisters to love me. Your dad wouldn’t even let you guys have that. I know you’re all mixed up right now, Mickey, but him dying is the best thing that could’ve happened to you.”

“I know,” Mickey admits softly. “I mean, if nothing else, he can’t go after you or the kid again. Or Mandy.” He lets out a shaky breath at the thought of Mandy. “She can finally feel safe for real.”

“I want _you_ to feel safe,” Ian says. “And I want you to know how love should be.”

“I do,” Mickey tells him simply. “You’re the first person who ever cared if I felt safe, you know that?”

“I know,” Ian says sadly. “I wish that wasn’t true.”

Mickey shrugs. “Glad it was you, though.”

“You shouldn’t have had to wait that long,” Ian says.

Mickey doesn’t really know what to say to that. “Okay,” is all he says. “I don’t really know why I told you that,” he admits.

“Maybe you just needed to get it off your chest,” Ian suggests with a shrug. “Doesn’t matter. You can tell me anything, Mick. You know I like hearing you talk.”

It’s almost a dizzying thought. Ian really does listen to what Mickey says. He laughs at Mickey’s jokes and remembers shit Mickey tells him. Mickey’s not used to that at all. He doesn’t know exactly how to tell Ian how much that means to him. It kind of scares him sometimes. Ian’s paying attention, so Mickey feels like he needs to say important shit. He’s not good at that.

“Ready to go home?” Ian asks. He doesn’t seem to realize that Mickey’s over here struggling to put words to the feeling in his chest.

“Yeah,” Mickey says. He reaches over and grabs Ian’s hand again. “Let’s go home.”

 

Looking at Yevgeny is a little terrifying sometimes. Here’s this kid who has no real idea what a piece of shit Mickey is. He doesn’t know all the bad shit Mickey did in his life. He doesn’t know why Mickey went to prison. He doesn’t know that people who know Mickey from before are afraid of him because he used to pound their faces in just for looking at him funny.

All Yevgeny knows is Mickey is his dad. He knows Mickey comes to pick him up from school when he’s not working, and he knows Mickey makes him breakfast burritos on Saturday mornings, and he knows Mickey reads with him every night.

Yevgeny knows Mickey loves him.

It makes Mickey’s chest get all tight if he thinks about it too much. He didn’t want the kid in the first place. He was another thing Terry made him do, another reminder of all the ways Mickey was wrong in his father’s eyes. He was something in Mickey’s way when it came to being with Ian, for a little while.

But now here they are. He’s an actual _person_ , a little human with a personality and thoughts and ideas and dreams. He looks like Mickey, there’s no doubt about that. It makes Mickey shiver sometimes. That must be what he looked like, minus the glasses. He was the kid’s age when his dad shoved him into a barbed wire fence. He looked like that when his dad slapped him for crying over all the blood and pain.

Mickey knows Terry was a horrible, downright evil person. What he did to Mandy is proof enough. But Mickey looks at Yevgeny and the thought of hurting him makes him sick to his stomach. He doesn’t know how Terry could’ve done all the shit he did. He doesn’t know how someone can look at a little kid, so trusting and weird and vulnerable, and think it’s funny to make him cry. In some ways, Mickey didn’t even realize how bad Terry was until he started caring about Yevgeny. If someone tried to do even a fraction of the shit Terry did to Mickey to Yevgeny, Mickey would kill them. No question.

And Mickey knows he should make the connection to understanding he’s worth that kind of love and protection. He knows he didn’t deserve what Terry did to him. He knows he deserved a father who actually cared about him. He didn’t have that, though, and it’s easier to think the kid deserves better than it is to think someone should’ve loved him that way.

Yevgeny’s asleep, and Mickey’s sitting in here in his room watching like a creep. He’s been doing it a lot lately. It’s been two weeks since Terry died, and Mickey’s off the hook with the cops. He doesn’t know what happened to Terry’s body or if his brothers put together some kind of funeral. He’s back at work now and just dodging everyone’s sympathy. Mandy went back to Detroit and her job and her classes and her life. Mickey calls her more now, though. It’s only been two weeks, so who knows if he’ll stick with it, but he thinks he should talk to her at least once a week from now on. They got some new dishes and salvaged the broken ones they could. Things are getting back to a normal kind of routine.

But Mickey keeps waking up early and slipping into Yevgeny’s room just to watch his little chest rise and fall. Kim told Mickey it’s normal for him to get emotional about being a father now that he’s really examining his own father. She said it’s normal for Terry’s death to bring up all kinds of weird feelings and memories he’d buried. She said not to worry, it was all part of his healing process.

Mickey still feels weird about it. He knows it’s anxiety that’s sending him into Yevgeny’s room every morning while the sun is still wearily climbing into the sky. Something keeps waking him up and propelling him to check on Yevgeny. It’s like he thinks maybe Terry isn’t actually dead. Maybe Terry faked his death so he could escape, and he’s going to come after Yevgeny. It doesn’t make any fucking sense, but Mickey’s brain hasn’t made sense in a long time. All he knows is he has to make sure Yevgeny is safe.

Mickey couldn’t kill Terry for himself. He couldn’t even do it for Ian or Mandy. But he’s pretty sure he could do it for the kid. If Terry got his hands on this little boy, Mickey would shoot him where he stood. That feeling doesn’t scare Mickey at all. It probably should, but it doesn’t. It’s easy to think it now, of course, since the chances of Mickey having to actually prove that are zero, even if his brain thinks there’s a chance in the middle of the night.

Yevgeny stirs a little. He opens his eyes drowsily. “Hi, Dad,” he says. “You gonna lay down by me?”

“Nah, little man, go back to sleep,” Mickey whispers. “I’m just making sure you’re okay.”

Yevgeny’s eyes are already closed again. He’s got his mouth hanging wide open and there’s a little drool slipping out the corner. He’s on his stomach with his butt right up in the air. It doesn’t look comfortable at all, but he’s been sleeping that way since he was a baby. Mickey remembers that from before.

A sound from behind him has Mickey scrambling to whip around, to put his body between Yevgeny and the door. It’s Svetlana, though. She stares at him for a minute, and then she tips her head back toward the kitchen and leaves. Mickey takes a last look at Yevgeny before he follows her. He’s not going to touch the kid, because it’ll wake him up, but he listens to that steady breathing for another second.

Svetlana’s starting some coffee, so Mickey takes down two mugs. They sit down at the table and neither of them say anything until after the coffee’s done.

“Face is looking better,” Svetlana tells him. “Not so horrible now.”

He snorts. “Wow, thanks.”

She rests her chin on her hand. “My father died in prison,” she reveals. “Same as yours.”

Mickey raises his eyebrows. “I’m guessing he didn’t go down for selling you?”

She scoffs. “Barely crime,” she says bitterly. “He did not pay debts. Crossed wrong people, was framed for murder.”

“Framed?” Mickey asks suspiciously.

Svetlana rolls her eyes. “Was pussy,” she says dismissively. “Could never kill anyone.”

Mickey decides he’d be okay with someone describing him that way. He’d like to get to the point where he’s too much of a pussy to kill someone. It’s kind of a weird thought, since he spent so much of his life trying to prove how tough and scary and ruthless he was, but he doesn’t want to be that anymore. He wants to be some guy who has no idea which bullets are the best kind to inflict which injuries.

“How old were you?” Mickey asks.

“Sixteen,” she says. “Was with second pimp then. I finish with client and pimp tells me, father is dead. I gave payment from fuck. Went home. Ate cake. Nothing wrong.”

“You didn’t run off and get your ass kicked?” Mickey asks wryly.

“No,” she says. “Then, three days after. Client was…” She tips her head. “Rough.”

Mickey feels sick to his stomach. He’s very familiar with the shit she was willing to do when she was a whore. He set prices for it. He doesn’t want to think about what some asshole would have to do to her for her to classify it as rough.

“You kill him?” Mickey asks.

“I pushed him off balcony,” she says unabashedly. “Threw chair down after. Spit on him. Called him father’s name.”

“Jesus,” Mickey says. “Did he die?”

“No,” she says.

“Too bad,” Mickey mutters. Maybe he should go find the guy and finish the job. Sure, someday he’d _like_ to be a guy who can’t kill anyone, but he’s not there yet.

Svetlana shrugs. “Was bad idea,” she says. “Was friend of Alexei, pimp at time.” She shrugs again. “Was worth punishment to get out of my system.”

Mickey’s going to hurl. “Punishment?”

She shakes her head. “I do not want to talk about that,” she says softly, looking into her coffee mug. “But I know confusion over shit father dying.”

“How’d you get over it?” Mickey asks.

Svetlana snorts. “Have not,” she says with a shrug. “Drink and ignore.”

They both laugh a little, but it’s not funny. She really isn’t joking. She needs therapy more than Mickey, probably. At least just as much. But Mickey’s trying not to push it on her. He knows better than anyone the impulse to bury every fucked up thing that’s happened and avoid ever thinking about it. If he hadn’t grabbed the kid and shook him, he probably still wouldn’t be in therapy now. She raised the kid well, she learned English, she got her good office job—she’s dealing a hell of a lot better than Mickey ever did. Maybe it’s not his place to tell her she needs therapy.

She gives him a wry smile and pats his hand. “You are thinking I should go to therapy,” she says.

Mickey shrugs. “Yeah,” he admits, because they’re no point lying about it. She already knows he wants her to come with him.

“Maybe someday,” she says.

“Not this week though,” Mickey guesses.

“Not this week,” she agrees. She assesses him. “I think,” she says softly. “Zhenya is very lucky. He will not have confusion with shit father dying.” Mickey’s sure he looks shocked. He feels like she just fucking stabbed him. She scrambles to say, “No confusion. Because you are not shit father.”

“Fuck,” he breathes. “Jesus. Thought you were fucking saying the kid would be glad when I die.”

She snorts, and then she sort of giggles—and who the fuck knew she could giggle—and then she just outright cracks up laughing. Mickey would love to join in, but his heart’s still sitting somewhere around his ankles. She calms herself down and looks apologetic.

“I call you piece of shit,” she says. “But is joke now. You are good.”

He already had tears threatening to come out, so now his eyes are stinging. “You are, too,” he tells her. “Really good. Of all the whores Terry could’ve called to fuck the gay outta me, I’m glad it was you.”

Then they’re both laughing again, shoving their hands over their mouths to try to be quiet. It’s a pretty fucked up thing to laugh about, but they’re both extremely fucked up people, so Mickey’s not going to lose any sleep over it.

“Mick?” Ian whispers. Once Mickey turns his head to acknowledge he’s there, Ian wraps his arms around Mickey from behind. Mickey takes a second to feel shitty that Ian had to announce himself first. Mickey was finally starting to not freak out when Ian touched him without warning. Terry’s dirt nap has sent him regressing in a bunch of ways. He fucking hates it, but Kim says it’s normal. Normal for how fucked up he is, anyway. He’s never going to be normal like regular people are normal. He’s supposed to tell himself that’s okay because he lived through horrible shit and yadda yadda.

“What are you guys doing?” Ian asks. His hair’s getting long and his bedhead is wild. Mickey loves it.

“Just chitchatting about shitty dads,” Mickey tells him. He pulls the chair next to him out a little. “Come on, your turn.”

Ian shakes his head, laughing a little as he sits down. “Yeah, this is normal four am conversation.”

“I keep watching the kid sleep,” Mickey reveals. “Don’t know why I feel like something’s gonna happen to him.”

“Probably because you were so hyperaware of something happening to you when you were sleeping as a kid, and Terry dying made you think about that shit again, and now you’re thinking about something happening to Yev while he’s asleep,” Ian says.

Mickey rolls his eyes. “Yeah, thanks, I was at _my_ therapy session with Kim when she said that, too.”

Ian shrugs blithely. “You said you didn’t know,” he points out with a snooty little eyebrow raise that makes Mickey want to take him back to bed right now.

“You think you’ll be fucked up when Frank dies?” Mickey asks. The answer is most likely yes, since it seems to happen to all of them.

“Well, do you want to hear how fucked up I was when Monica actually died?” Ian asks. He’s acting really nonchalant, but Mickey knows Ian has some fucking deep wounds from Monica. He thinks maybe the fact that she was constantly telling them how much she loved them before disappearing or trying to jump off the roof or locking them in the car alone or pimping manic seventeen-year-old Ian out for drugs made it worse. Terry sure as fuck never told Mickey he loved him. Mickey never even associated his parents with love until that time Terry didn’t stab him and Mickey thought that constituted love.

So Mickey says, “Nah. We’re only on shitty dads tonight. Maybe we’ll tackle shitty moms another night.”

Ian laughs, but he shoots Mickey this grateful look that makes him feel warm. Not in a bad way, like he’s too hot and he can’t breathe, but warm like he’s comfortable and safe.

“Well, I think the longer Frank lives, the less fucked up I’ll be because he’s just worse and worse all the time,” Ian points out. “I think everyone else’ll be more fucked up over Frank. He always hated me most since I’m not actually his.”

“And ‘cause he’s a fucking idiot,” Mickey adds.

“Dads are always,” Svetlana asks.

“Excuse me?” Mickey demands, making them both laugh at him. “The fuck.” He nudges Ian. “What are you laughing at, giggles? That includes you.”

“I’m a stepdad,” Ian corrects. “I think they’re usually better.”

Mickey scoffs at him and Ian wiggles his eyebrows. It’s so fucking stupid and Mickey loves him so much his stomach hurts. Svetlana rolls her eyes at both of them.

“I will go back to bed,” she says. “Before you fuck.”

“Hey, Svet,” Mickey stops her before she retreats down the hall. She looks at him expectantly. “Um…thanks.” He shrugs. “For being here. And what the fuck ever.”

She snorts at how he can’t ever say things right but the smile she gives him isn’t mocking. “Always,” she promises. “We are family.”

Mickey already loved their patchwork family. But in the weeks since Terry died, he’s appreciating it more. He always thought he was fucking cursed with a bad family. And maybe he was, at first. But now he has this new one, and it’s weird and sometimes they all rub each other the wrong way and set each other off, but there’s a difference in his new family and his old family. They all love each other. They all care about each other. They’ve all agreed, without actually talking about it, that they’re not going to hurt each other and they’re not going to leave and they’re going to make this work. It’s different and it’s kind of scary sometimes. Mickey has no experience in this kind of family. But they’re all jumping in together.

“Ready to go back to bed?” Ian asks, rubbing Mickey’s back. “You can sleep a few more hours before you gotta be up for work.”

“Maybe I’ll get up early and go for a run with you,” Mickey says.

Ian’s smile is 100% forced. “Sure,” he says unenthusiastically. Mickey laughs out loud.

“Don’t worry, I won’t make you run slow for me,” he says. “I ain’t taking up running. But…”

“But?” Ian asks.

“Well, you know that one time I freaked the fuck out over Terry dying and took off without shoes or anything and wandered around for a few hours?”

“It sounds familiar.”

“I saw a boxing gym,” Mickey tells him. He doesn’t even have to say he’s thinking about joining, which is good because it’s kind of mortifying to say it, for some reason. He doesn’t really know what the hang up is there. Just the idea of him wanting something, he guesses.

“Oh, Mickey, that’s perfect!” Ian gushes. “You can beat the shit out of a punching bag and get your anger out without hurting anyone. Plus you’re getting the benefits of exercise. And you’re gonna get fucking _jacked_ , holy shit. You’re gonna be so hot I’ll be all over you every day.”

“You’re already all over me every day,” Mickey points out. He makes a face. “You saying I’m not that hot now?”

“I’m saying…well, you’re so hot I’ll probably die if you get any hotter,” Ian saves himself.

Mickey laughs at him, because it wasn’t a very good save, but he’ll take it. He gets this dorky little thrill every time Ian even implies Mickey’s good-looking. Which is kind of stupid, because Ian’s been hinting at that since he was fifteen fucking years old. They go back to bed, and Mickey lies with his ear against Ian’s chest. He’s warm here, and he’s safe. There’s still a pull to check on Yevgeny, and there’s still fear and anxiety and self-hatred lurking under his skin. It’s just a hell of a lot easier to keep it all at bay with Ian’s arms around him after he’s made sure all the doors and windows are locked up tight and everyone’s safe inside.

“Hey,” Mickey whispers. “Someday you should tell me about Monica.” It won’t be a good day for either of them. It’ll be extra shitty for Ian, obviously, rehashing all that when he mostly put it behind him years ago, and Mickey’s never been good at seeing Ian in distress so it’ll be shitty for him, too. It’s even worse when there’s absolutely nothing he can do about it, and he’ll feel guilty that he was locked up and couldn’t do anything to help when it was happening.

But he’s learning. He’s learning about love and families and taking care of people. He’s learning that talking about shit isn’t always a bad thing, even when it sucks in the moment. He’s surprised as all fuck, but not bottling everything up really does help. That wasn’t some lie weirdo rich people were pushing. It can help you feel better in the long run. And if he can do anything to help Ian feel better in the long run, he’s sure as hell going to do it.

Ian smiles at him softly. He tips his head down and kisses the side of Mickey’s face. “Yeah, Mick,” he says. “I think I’d like that.”

Mickey’s not sure how true that is, but Ian always did like telling him shit, even when Mickey pretended he wasn’t listening. He always was, though, and he’s pretty sure Ian always knew that. Mickey stretches up to give Ian a proper kiss, meeting his lips the way Mickey loves, and then he settles back down.

It’s like Mandy said. There’s stuff he’s going to be fucked up about for the rest of his life. Terry did that to him. But Terry’s gone now. Truth be told, Terry was gone for Mickey a long time ago, even if the specter of him did hang over Mickey for a long time and might always. And just like Mandy said, Mickey’s sick to death of being fucked up over Terry. So he can’t fix everything, and he can’t change what happened to him before, but he can do his fucking best to change things now. He can make sure he isn’t Terry. He can love his family right. He can do more than just not hurt them sometimes.

“Love you,” Ian murmurs, mostly asleep already.

Mickey turns his head and kisses Ian’s chest. “I love you,” he answers. He doesn’t always know how to show that, and he doesn’t always know the right way to feel love. But this, with Ian, safe and comfortable wrapped up together, is something instinctive. He’s learning the other shit, how to show love and how to be happy and how to let people comfort him when he’s losing his shit, but this isn’t something he has to learn.

He might need to practice it, though. It might be one of those things that goes away if you don’t use it. And Mickey decides that’s okay with him. He’s willing to practice loving every day for the rest of his life.

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: At one point, Mickey goes to a wake for Terry with his brothers. The two oldest brothers, Joey and Jamie, come later. They threaten to kill Mickey and use slurs and other homophobic language before punching, headbutting, and kicking Mickey until he's able to get away.
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